


Never Leave A Note

by ChemicalOrgasm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Anal Beads, Anal Sex, BAMF!John, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock, Case Fic, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Abuse, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Paranormal, Past Sexual Abuse, References to Conan Doyle Case: The Empty House, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 141,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemicalOrgasm/pseuds/ChemicalOrgasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three years since Sherlock took the fall at St. Batholomew's Hospital and Sherlock has returned to London to track down the final assassin keeping him from his old life back in Baker Street. He enlists the help of one old army doctor and expects everything to return to normal. Much angst and fluff ensues, but will John except his old friend back after believing he was dead for three long years?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walloped by a Blind Man

**Author's Note:**

> Hello from ChemicalOrgasm,  
> This is a roleplay co-authored story, hence the breaks between points of view. We apologize if you find the back and forth format annoying but it is rather smooth in its transitions and we worked hard to remain true to each character. Loretta plays the part of Sherlock Holmes and I (Amy) write for John Watson. We express permission to anybody who would like to repost this on facebook, tumbler, or other social websites and we would also like to extend permission to anybody who might like to construct a podfic or art from this fiction!
> 
> Disclaimer: We do not own any of Sir Conan Doyle's original characters or the work of BBC. If we did...we'd be very naughty indeed.

 

 

 

_"He was my best friend, and no matter what people may say about him...I will always believe in him." -The blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

 

John Watson had his good days, and he had his bad ones, and this time of the year every day seemed to be a bad one. With the weather rainy and dreary, John found himself using that old aluminum cane day in and day out. He tried not to use it when in the clinic, sort of put patients off if they saw their own doctor was a bit of a cripple.

In the three years after...'The Fall', as he was calling it these days; John Hamish Watson had made a bit of a place for himself. The first months had been hell and he had stopped seeing his therapist after her insistence in resuming his blog got old. Instead, he decided he didn't need any therapy. He left Baker Street, returning to his small pension flat a few blocks away. Unfortunately, every day on his way into his newly opened practice, John Watson was forced to pass the old digs on Baker Street. He visited Mrs. Hudson rather frequently, but rarely did he go upstairs to the old rooms. Strangely enough, Mrs. Hudson wasn't renting them out again, more like Mycroft was using the place as a sort of storage facility for his brother's old things. Even the old specimens in the fridge were still there; more than likely. John knew if Mrs. Hudson ever decided to rent out the place again she should just get a new fridge all together. The current one was a bio-hazard, for sure.

A lot could happen in three years...but to John, it felt like very little had. With a little help from Mrs. Hudson and a very sizable loan, John had opened his new practice off of Park Road near the business colleges. Other than the occasional new strain of the flu or the common cold however, John's life lacked any if not all of the previous excitement he had grown accustomed to while living with Sherlock. But he was an acting surgeon for Scotland Yard and often saw Lestrade when he was called in to make a call on a cause of death. Though that was as exciting as it ever got.

Staring out the window at the rain overlooking Park Road, John grimaced over a cup of liquid sludge his new secretary called coffee. Three years...three years and he still thought he might get a text asking after the milk and the shopping. He never got to tell him...tell him before 'the fall.' It really was true, what they said. You never knew what you had until it was gone.

"What was that doctor?" John turned too quickly out of surprise, slopping coffee on his sleeve and hissing as it burned his wrist. He set it down in a hurry and his secretary rushed over in a fret. He waved her off, wiping his hand off in his white lab coat pocket, knowing he'd have to wash it later. He hadn't realized he had been speaking aloud...

"What is it?" He huffed softly, feeling tired at the end of his shift, "Are you going home?"

"I was about to," she looked mildly put out and motioned towards the lobby, "But there's a man here and he says it's an emergency."

"Emergencies are for bigger hospitals." John sighed, "Can he not make it to an A 'n' E?" Adjusting the spread of his coat, he walked with his secretary to the door of his consulting room and held it open, looking out into the small lobby of his clinic. He supposed dinner with Lestrade at the pub would have to wait, as well as the discussion of the last case he had overseen a dead body for. "What seems to be the trouble?" He followed the girl out and paused beside her front desk.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Traveling for three years takes quite a lot out of a man. Well, it took quite a lot out of Mycroft’s wallet to be more precise. Sherlock had a thing about relying on his brother for money. However, harder times call for harder measures. After the illusion he pulled off three years ago, Sherlock had been on the run for various reasons. One was those quite persistent assassins Moriarty had hired. The majority of them had seen Sherlock plummet to his death. Despite that, there was still one who did not give up that easily. The other reason was due to the massive amount of people believing that he was a fake detective who had gone insane to become famous. That was all thanks to John. Everything had gone according to plan due to the eyes of the only person who did not doubt him. In all honesty, Sherlock did want to go back to Baker Street to see his only friend. The assassins and publicity did make this nearly impossible though. If Sherlock was to reveal his face too soon, it would lead to disaster, or possibly the assassin killing John instead. Either or, there was no need to rush into things. All he had to do was wait and let Mycroft deal with the government. Sherlock did not leave Watson entirely alone after all. His brother had eyes everywhere and knew what was happening to the doctor who used to live in 221B.

The ride back to London was a rather unpleasant one. Sherlock had not seen the streets of London in three years. It was exciting, yes. Much more exciting than having to listen to Mycroft try to lecture him about what not to do when he got back to Baker Street. It was just as if he was listening to an elderly woman try to stuff her toy dog into a dress. His brother had to be rather excited to have Sherlock going back to see John. Since, Mycroft did love to keep tabs on John so much. Sherlock was wearing a long pea coat, different from the one he used to wear before the incident at the Hospital. Unfortunately, he had to ditch his coat back then for it had served as a shroud for his ‘body’. The collar of his new coat was pulled up and a black cotton hat covered his hair. The now overly excited Sherlock pulled out his key to 221B and entered the apartment. The grey eyed male took a deep breath, taking in the familiar mixed scents that he had missed. Baking powder, perfume…vanilla with a hit of nutmeg. Cologne, too strong for Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock causally walked into the flat, moving towards the kitchen. He dragged his finger against a small table against the wall. It had been recently cleaned; Mrs. Hudson was trying to impress a date. However, he was too masculine for her tastes. The cologne indicated that he was a lawyer of sorts.  
Just as he entered the kitchen, a high pitched scream rang through his ears. “Mrs. Hudson. Shut up will you. You have a hangover, do you not? Staying away from loud sounds would benefit you in the utmost way.” An older woman embraced Sherlock before he could finish his sentence. She was covered in baking soda and her hair was in quite a disorderly way. It made Sherlock smile just a bit.

  
”Sherlock! Yo-you y-you y-you.” The landlady stumbled over her words, obviously in a state of shock. Her eyes were wide and she kept touching his arm as if she was expecting him to disappear out of thin air.

The dark haired male let out a sigh, pulling out a chair from the table and making the elderly woman sit down. “You received a package this afternoon. Where is it?” Sherlock glanced at her as she pointed her slender index finger toward the counter. He followed her finger and grabbed an unopened packaged box from the counter. “Ah~ Wonderful! I am surprised you were able to resist the urge to go through my stuff. That is a step up for you Mrs. Hudson!” He slipped the package under his arm before heading toward the door while taking off his coat and tossing it on the staircase. ”I will be back later, with John. Prepare us some dinner will you. Not the take out crap this time. You have enough free time to cook a meal before then.” Sherlock called out to her just before he shut the door behind him. A smile arose from his lips as he finally heard her respond from the other side of the door. “I am not your maid, Sherlock!” There she goes, back to normal.

 

There was an odd silence in the back of a London taxi cab. A rather over weight driver kept glancing over his shoulder and into the backseat, where there sat Sherlock, who was currently applying make-up to his face and pulling a dirty gray haired wig on. He had pulled out the contents of the package and it contained some dirty clothing, a wig, make up (mainly mud), a pair of black sunglasses you would find on a blind man, and a long white cane with a red tip. He pulled the black hat over the messy gray hair and slid on the glasses. Next, he pulled on a long and muddy trench coat which was followed by a pair of baggy pants that he could pull over his own. Sherlock glanced at the driver, catching him staring at his outfit. “What? Stop staring at blind men with your stupidity, it will blind them more.”

The car stopped outside of a clinic, to be more precise, Doctor John Watson’s office. Sherlock stumbled out of the cab, placing the white cane out in front of him. He moved the cane around, trying to hit anything that might make him fall. This included a group of young teenagers who were walking to a bar. Sherlock began yelling profanities as he bumped into one of them and then proceeded to attempt to beat them with the cane. Honestly, he was enjoying this. It was a struggling walk up and into the office and once he stepped inside he began limping and talking very loudly, keeping up with the blind act. “Hello?! I need a doctor! It’s an emergency! My leg! I am a veteran! My leg was shot! I think it’s still bleeding!” He continued to yell and holler as if he was some old senile blind man. Of course he was not shot; veterans had a habit of feeling old wounds as if they were new. Trauma, shock, a bit of high blood pressure. John knew that, after all, he had to experience similar cases before. He could hear a nurse say something that Sherlock honestly did not care for before she was running off to go get the doctor. His doctor.

The ‘elderly blind man’ took a deep breath, he needed a cigarette. He waited patiently by the front desk until he heard two sets of footsteps approaching. “Please! I need help! My leg, it hurts. I-I was shot. I-I can still feel the blood. I served in the army. U-under the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Sherlock gasped in pain, clutching his left thigh while still swinging around the cane dramatically. He mentioned Watson’s past occupation quite clearly. Watson had been the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. It wasn’t something the nurse would probably catch but Watson would not be able to ignore the connection. Sherlock stumbled forward, his body colliding and slouching against the front desk dramatically.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

John Watson had learned enough from his old friend Sherlock to be able to apply some of his methods. He had been asked to constantly during cases to substitute for the detective if any case did not surpass his interest of on a scale of nine or above. but the only times John ever had a reason to try to 'think like Sherlock' was when he was helping out Lestrade with a dead body. At first, he had tried to amuse himself with patients, but it had gotten old and he had decided he didn't want to really know the personal prospects of most of his clients. Wasn't as if he was very good at it anyhow.

Watson turned to regard the late patient as a loud, rasping old voice filled his office lobby. His secretary scrambled to get a few printed sheets onto a clipboard for examination. John wasn't anywhere near as quick at dissecting a man's life by observation as Sherlock had been, God rest his soul...but when the stranger mentioned he had been shot and his leg was fully intact, John's curiosity heightened.

"Suppose we can get you patched up then." He told the blind man, figuring this was a case of dementia or worse, taking the individual's arm gently to steer him towards his examination room, "This way sir, it will only take a moment and we'll have you feeling better." John's bedside manner was incorrigible. But when he heard the veteran call out his old regiment, his brows furrowed. Surely this man was too old to have served in Afghanistan. The facts were not adding up. Getting his patient to sit on the examining table, John turned to wash his hands. His secretary came in with the clipboard she had compiled and set it in the file holder at the back of the door before closing it behind herself. All the nurses had gone home aside from himself and the secretary out front. It had been a long day, but John was never one to turn away someone in need.

"If we could start with your name, that would be a good start. I served in the Northumberland Fusiliers as well." For all John knew, he could be lying, but he would humor him for now. Drying his hands on some paper towels, he discarded them and moved towards his cabinets, his back still turned towards the man on his table. "You say you were shot in the leg, perhaps you're feeling pain from an old wound, sir." He sifted through some medications he had in a higher cabinet and pulled down a bottle, "I'm going to prescribe a simple pain killer for now; it'll allow you to get some rest. But you really should seek out some physical therapy; I was shot in the war myself." Turning, he looked up at his patient from the label of a small box of pills, "You'll need to get this filled at the chemists down the street."

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Sherlock continued to swing the white cane around dangerously while John led him away from the waiting room. It was good to see the old doctor again. In the corner of his eye, he glanced over John’s figure. He could spot the coffee stain near his wrist and the smudges on the white coat. Been dazing off into space lately, too busy to pay attention to his cup. Must have been as bored as me. But what were you thinking about? Me perhaps? All the while, Sherlock continued to bump into walls and hit objects with the cane on the way to the examination room. He already knew about the cases John had started to take up in his place. Mycroft had talked excessively on the phone about such matters. If he didn’t know his brother better he would have said he had a crush on the army doctor. On the way to the examination room he continued to mumble in an insane fashion. “Who are you? Where is my dog. Her name is Molly. I need help. M-my leg! It hurts. I-I think it’s bleeding. W-why is it bleeding. W-who are all these people.“

Sherlock continued to ramble on and on about pointless things as he sat on the examination table. His slender fingers brushed against the cold surface of the table as if he was trying to feel it out. He knew where he was, he wasn’t blind. After all, he was observing John’s reaction to the hint about the army regiment. It was rather entertaining to watch his old friend attempt to analyze the situation. John wasn’t as moronic as most people. Well, not like the cab driver for instance. That lazy buffoon couldn’t tell a blind man when he saw one. However, John was a different case entirely. While he did lack Sherlock’s ability for deduction, John did learn quite a lot over the time they spent together. The icy blue eyed male was rather curious if John could pick up on who he really was, so he continued to play with his old friend. When John asked for the blind man’s name, he began to groan very loudly, still clutching his thigh for dear life. “M-my name? It’s Sigerson.” He mumbled.

During the three years Sherlock was traveling, he found a way to keep in touch with his friend indirectly. Also, not involving Mycroft in any way. He had started up another blog under the name of Sigerson. In this blog he wrote about various adventures and people he met during his travels from Tibet to Persia. He also managed to blog about a bit of research, without giving away his identity.  
The elderly blind man nodded, “It was a hard and long battle. I died at the end.” He scratched his thigh before stretching back. As John was looking through the medication, he quickly reached down and pulled his phone from his pocket. It had been a long time since he had sent a text to John, but now was certainly a good time.

 

_To: John_   
_From: Sherlock_   
_Message: You know my methods, Watson._   
_Where is my stash?_

 

He sent it just as Watson was about to turn back around. Sherlock shoved his phone in his pocket, clutching his leg tightly. “I need something stronger. A smoke or some cocaine would do. Please, won’t you help a dying veteran ease his suffering?” He let out a sob, reaching forward pathetically. His dirty hand shook and trembled. No one would expect him to be acting as such; however, it was rather entertaining. Sherlock waited for a moment, listening patiently until he heard the buzzing sound of Watson’s cell. Waiting for his opening, he took a chance figuring John would look at his phone. He took off the grey wig along with the black sun glasses. Sherlock took a heavy breath before sliding off his dirty trench coat as well. With that, the blue eyed male leaned back on the table, waiting for John to turn around and look up.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

John had dealt with a couple of senile types in his day, and not every soldier he had tended to in the army had been completely conscious or in their right minds as he had worked over them. But this blind man was a curious contradiction. Either he had a lot of old shadows from his army days haunting him or he was completely insane. Not only was there no wound and no blood, but his words were strange. "Why don't you tell me about your dog Molly." He murmured, trying to distract this senile old man into calming down so he could examine him.

The name he had been supplied with...Sigerson, gave John pause immediately. How could this man be Sigerson, the online blogger he had been following the past two and a half years? He was blind, how could he even see to type out his blogs? It had to be a coincidence. But the patient's next words made John's blood run cold. He couldn't be talking about Afghanistan...

John turned back towards the cabinet to replace the medication he had been about to prescribe back on its shelf, reaching for a more tranquilizer type of drug. Perhaps if this man were tranquilized he could get better help from an institution. If he thought he was dead, there was certainly more wrong with him then being blind with a bad leg. Sometimes, John thought he might be dead too, and this was all what they called the afterlife, just living life again without all the brightness and excitement. But he would never say such things aloud.

Slowly, John turned, taking a few steps closer to the man on his examining table. "Excuse me, what did you say?" John's brows furrowed quizzically, denim blue eyes looking closer at the man moaning in his ready room. He was moaning for drugs now...and John wondered vaguely if he were homeless. A lot of bums did spend their money on such things. But he shook his head, about to kick this strange man out of his clinic. It was past closing time and he felt as if he were wasting his time on this individual. Better he is seen to at a psychiatric ward than a common clinic.

John's phone vibrated in his inner coat pocket and he paused, taking the outstretched hand that was appealing to him for drugs and putting the tranquilizers in it, closing the fingers around the small box. "Just one moment, alright?" Odd, the only people who texted him anymore were Lestrade and occasionally Molly, mostly to do with bodies in the morgue he had had sent there from Lestrade's crime scenes. Who could be texting him now?

Turning away, John reached into his pocket and was gratified that the blind man seemed satisfied with whatever was in his hand at the moment. Let him figure that one out for a bit before he realized it wasn't exactly a drug he wanted. Unlocking his phone, John froze when he saw the name attached and the opening line. Sherlock...! John had kept the name and number in his phone purely out of sentimental reasons, and he was far too lazy to remove numbers he no longer needed. Of course, he had never thought he would actually receive a text from the number, especially since he had seen Sherlock toss his phone aside before he had...

Slowly turning around, his eyes on the screen of his phone, John read the text and looked up with wide blue eyes. "Sherlock!" He took a lurching step forward, as if someone had pushed him from behind. There, in the flesh, sat a slightly muddied image of his old friend. All the wind was knocked from his lungs in a rush and he gasped, trying to drag in more air into lungs that were strangely compressed. He almost dropped his phone, "Now I've surely gone mad..." Blue eyes narrowed, "You're dead. I saw it." His voice was barely above a hushed whisper and he slowly approached the examining table and the smug expression of his old friend. "Is this a joke...?" He saw the wig and the glasses resting atop the trench coat beside this apparition's side. "Because if it is, someone's getting bloody roughed up!" A sliver of anger entered John's tone and he pursed his lips, his hands clenching at his sides, his phone creaking in one hand.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Sherlock sat there patiently on the table while John was staring at his phone. He could only imagine the amount of shock the older male was experiencing right now. This may have not been the softest way to break it to his friend, but when was Sherlock into soft and sweet? The only way John could really understand is if he told him straight out. The icy eyes followed John’s movements carefully. He was obviously experiencing some shock from the text message. His head tilted to the side as John turned around and shouted his name. Sherlock’s eyes widened at John’s odd step forward. The taller male nearly jumped off the table to make sure the doctor didn’t fall. Alright, maybe a softer approach would be more appropriate next time. After all, he didn’t want to give John a heart attack.

The younger male, placed both of his arms on the other’s shoulders to steady him. “You’re not mad and I am not dead, John. I am right in front of you.” He said, attempting to be reassuring. Clearly he was not very good at it. There was excitement written all over his face, as if he was just given a severed head with no finger prints. After all, John was Sherlock’s partner in crime. He had missed his partner as much as he had missed the thrilling cases, even though John had a horrible habit of writing terrible renditions of their cases. Sherlock reached down and grabbed Watson’s hand, bringing it up to his shoulder. “Calm down! You’re not insane…well you are falling back on bad habits and your relationships are as dull as ever. However! You are not insane my dear friend. See? I am here. Not dead or smashed against the side walk in front of the hospital. Nor am I in the ground buried in a coffin.” Sherlock laughed at the end, moving away from John and walking around the room as he began to pace. “You never saw me die, John. You only saw what I wanted you to see. I needed for you to believe I was dead. After all, you could convince the whole world that I was dead with that blog of yours. See? That blog finally came in use after all.” He chuckled, wiping some of the mud off his face while he continued to slide off the muddy pants, revealing another pair underneath. Sherlock did dislike that blog John had; after all, he didn’t really want everyone reading his cases. Yet it somehow worked to their advantage anyway.

After a moment, Sherlock turned back to his friend. “I know you wanted me to quit, but I really need a cigarette. Do you have any? Oh yes, I suggest you cancel your date tonight with Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson is making us dinner later. Figured it would be a splendid idea to have a chat with the two of you, considering all the questions you have. Plus Mrs. Hudson is having some issues with her new lawyer friend. Did you know he wears cologne with the scent of horse urine? Ah~ that is how you attract women! You wear urine! Makes more sense than anything!” He went off on a tangent rather quickly. It had been such a long time since he had spoken to John that he could hardly control himself. In a joking manner, Sherlock turned to John and opened his arms wide for the other. “My dear Watson! I have missed your unintelligent comments!” He smiled widely, ready to embrace the other.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

As Sherlock sprung forward with the spryness he had always possessed, John stumbled back a step, only to be caught by very real, very solid hands. He knew he must look pale to the other, for he was looking at him with an odd concern. He frowned as Sherlock began to talk a mile a minute, only catching snippets here and there. "My relationships...?" He frowned, his eyes searching his old friend's face. "How do you know about my relationships-" As Sherlock turned to pace, John's hand slipped off his shoulder as an afterthought, leaning heavily on his good leg, looking like he listed a little to the side. Turning his head, he sharpened his gaze as the shock began to wear off, replaced with...something else.

"Only needed me to believe you were dead...for the blog...?" Things started to sink in. Sherlock hadn't been dead this whole time, he'd been in some sort of place hiding, hadn't told anyone, allowed John, his only friend, to believe he was dead for three years. Three bloody years! Fists clenched again, only the anger wasn't as readily apparent as it had been before, his jawline hard and his stare like stone. Obviously, he had been in hiding, but had some form of means to keep tabs on John's life. Mycroft... Sherlock despised his brother, used him for his money...but trusted him more to keep him after his 'death' than his flatmate and only friend.

John's mind filtered through all the nightmares, sleepless nights, silly theories put aside, emotional upheavals and depressing months and months of his life. It only made him see red. All the while, Sherlock was gibbering like a ninny, his mouth motoring along like a moped. The doctor started to walk forward, and as Sherlock flipped around and held up his arms for what could only be assumed an embrace--John drew his fist back and connected one solid punch with that chiseled jaw. "You bastard!" He howled. His secretary was knocking nervously on his ready room door and she opened it when she heard the crack of bone hitting bone, peering with wide eyes at the scene with a strange man she didn't identify right away as the blind one that had gone in earlier.

"Doctor!" She squeaked.

"You cheeky bastard!" John bellowed, "I will not be calm!" He shouted at his ceiling, reaching out and hauling Sherlock forward by the front of his collar, "Three bloody years, Sherlock!" He shouted in his pale face. "And not even a hullo!?" He rattled Sherlock by the front of his shirt. "I thought you were dead! And you come bloody well waltzing into my office like it is some parade!!"

"Doctor!" His secretary moved as if to take his sleeve and he turned a sharp eye on her.

"Shut up! This is long overdue!"

She shrunk back and fled from his offices, grabbing up her purse from her desk and storming her way out of the clinic entirely, the bell tinkling sadistically behind her.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Sherlock was way too lost in his own rambling to even notice the emotion changing in John’s posture. He had not made a mistake in so long and yet he made one now. During these three long years he had escaped the clutches of assassins various times, escaped death, and traveled all over Europe. Why the hell did he make a mistake now? Why did he let his guard down? Well, it was John. The person he trusted most on the face of this planet. He had gotten so lost within his own thoughts that he had forgotten John’s emotions. He truly desired to tell John every detail of his journey since the incident at St. Bart’s Hospital. Sherlock was known by some as an emotionless, inhuman, machine. That was true in most cases. However, there were times when he let himself go, became a childish boy for a few moments instead of a childish machine. This was one of those times.

The younger male was so lost in his own thoughts that he couldn’t calculate the fist coming straight at his jaw till he felt his jaw crack. That stinging pain snapped Sherlock back to reality. Along with that pain he could literally feel John’s anger burning through the older man’s hands. Sherlock was dazed slightly from the hit. He hadn’t been hit that hard in a long time. Even back when Sherlock asked John to punch him before seeing Irene, he hadn’t hit him this hard. The icy blue eyed male had underestimated John’s anger. Sherlock hissed while trying to wiggle his jaw yet it would not obey his commands. Dislocation. Wonderful. He didn’t move for a moment and by the time he did move, John was back at him again.

Sherlock remained silent as John yelled at him furiously. There was nothing he could say at this point to calm him down. Then again it was hard for him to talk. His mouth had remained open, yet he forced it shut with a bit of a struggle, his teeth not aligning right against each other. Sherlock let out a sigh, listening as the nurse stormed out of the office. Well…seemed like she wasn’t going to be coming back any time soon. What could he say to him now that they were alone? He was sorry? He didn’t want John to be killed by assassins? Or maybe that everything was going to be okay? No matter what Sherlock could say to John, his anger would not change quickly. So, he did something quite unlike himself. He raised his arms up passively, as if he was being arrested. “I am sorry, John. But I couldn’t tell you I was alive.” Mycroft would have killed to see his brother apologize for anything. Sherlock wasn’t too fond of apologizing since he never makes mistakes. Speaking those few words was rather difficult. He had to restrict the movement of his jaw to reduce the pain. So, the words came off very softly and sounded sort of like a mentally handicapped person trying to talk through a mouth full of cotton.

He shifted a bit, a tad uncomfortable in his current position. After being shaken by John like a rag doll, things wouldn’t be so comfortable. He missed the times where they acted like close friends. Maybe it was too much of Sherlock to think John would accept him back with open arms. He did leave his only friend alone for three years…He could never forget the last time he saw John at the grave yard. With that thought, Sherlock slowly pointed to his jaw. It was clear that John would love to inflict some more pain onto him and his jaw really needed to be set back into place. It was impossible to talk like this. Well, it was impossible to talk a lot and talk fast. ”Would you mind? I can’t really tell you want happened if I am like this…” Or at least, that’s what he tried to say.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

John was just turning back from yelling at his secretary when he noticed two things...Sherlock was murmuring an apology; surprise, surprise; and his mouth was slack towards his right shoulder. "Ah, bloody hell." John huffed, of course Sherlock had to have that fine bone structure that would make a single punch dislocate it. Shoving him back onto the examination table, John turned away, holding up a hand from over his shoulder to shut Sherlock up, "Yeah, yeah. Stop your nickering, you'll make it worse."

With impatient, annoyed movements, John yanked his storage drawers open and found some gauze, wrapping some around his thumbs and turning back to Sherlock. "Hold bloody still, I'm only doing this once." He hissed, pushing his thumbs into Sherlock's mouth without any due warning and positioning his fingers around the sides of Sherlock's face, fingers curling beneath the jaw. He aligned it straight, glaring at Sherlock the whole time, "And my comments are not," he pushed down; hard, snapping the bones back into their sockets, "unintelligent." Pulling his thumbs from between Sherlock's teeth, he discarded the gauze pieces into the bin and tore the box of tranquilizers from Sherlock's hands, replacing them back into his medical cabinets. "Don't you dare yawn for at least twenty-four hours; I'm not doing that again." He muttered, though he felt just a sliver of guilt for dislocating Sherlock's jaw in the first place. But the anger over the whole situation overshadowed any of those feelings.

"I cannot cancel on Lestrade; we were going to discuss the latest case I'm helping him with." He whipped off his white coat and hung it up on a hook on the back of the door, opening the ready room door and striding out and across the hall to his office, his steps measured and staccato. He had to admit he was full of curiosity for Sherlock and where he had been these past three years...not to mention if he really had been telling the truth, that he was Sigerson. But it would be far better to let the bastard stew in some guilt for a while. Shrugging his jumper on over his button down shirt, he picked up his keys from his desk and turned back. He paused in the hall, looking at Sherlock, the very figure he had told himself he'd never see again, aside from photographs and the internet. That first week without Sherlock he had plagued himself with short clips of him caught in public, of photographs from the news prints... scribbles and drabbles written by fans even---some of those had been a shudder.

"Sherlock." His tone was hard but he leveled a dreary look at his old friend, "Why? Why now, after three long years, why come back now?" He narrowed his eyes. He couldn't believe that Sherlock had just come back because he felt guilty, because he missed John of all reasons. That was a bit of a laugh...Sherlock missing anyone. Sure, he had his tender moments in the past, but caring enough for anyone to actually admit those emotions was difficult for Sherlock. The man might care, but he'd go out of his way to pretend like he didn't.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Sherlock had tried to smile when John showed some clear irritation when he noticed his jaw. Well, perhaps he would soon regret even mentioning it to John. It might have been better if Sherlock didn’t even search for his friend until tomorrow. It wasn’t exactly a search; John wasn’t actually playing hard to get with his office location. It wasn’t far from Baker’s Street nor was it out of the way. He sat back down on the table as John shoved him back. Well wasn’t he being very bossy today? It was not like John who usually let him take the lead on most things. Like cases, driving, where they were going to eat. He began to let his mind wonder, not paying too much attention to John once again. Maybe John had changed more than Sherlock had calculated. He still held the same appearance. Though, he looked rather worn out in Sherlock’s opinion. Today couldn’t have been John’s best day.

The darker haired male snapped back to his senses as John raised his hand and told Sherlock to shut up. Immediately, his left brow rose. When did John start bossing him around? The stubbornness won through as he insisted on trying to talk through the pain that was screaming through his bones. “W-When did you become…so domineering? Did you perhaps take some classes from ‘The Woman’?” Sherlock struggled on his words in the beginning yet he could control his voice better toward the end. Soon after he spoke he couldn’t help but regret speaking, his jaw immediately throbbing to no end. He reached up in an attempt to try and ease some of the pain but quickly lowered his hand when he saw John coming back to the table with gauze wrapped around his thumbs. If Moriarty couldn’t kill Sherlock than John would definitely kill him. He could see the title now on John’s blog: The Case of the Gauze Thumbs.

Sherlock was dying to get out another witty comment before John shoved his thumbs into his mouth. He groaned in pain, closing his right eye tightly on reflex. His fingers wrapped around the end of the table, bracing for the pain that John was so willingly about to inflict. Well, that is if just touching his jaw wasn’t painful enough. The younger male had to fight the urge to resist biting the doctor’s fingers. He struggled to stay still on the table as John straightened his jaw. Yelling with someone’s fingers in your mouth wasn’t exactly easy. He could feel John’s glare literally burning into his head. Just for that pause when he began to talk, he stared at the other man for a split second. That was right before John mercilessly shoved his jaw back into place. His eyes shut tightly as his finger nails scraped against the underside of the metal table. He attempted to yell but it came out muffled do to John’s hands being in the way. The next few seconds were a daze. Sherlock reached up, placing both of his hands on either side of his face as if to dull the pain in some pathetic way.

By the time he glanced back up, he only caught a glimpse of John walking out of the room and into his office. For a moment he struggled to get himself back on his feet but quickly was able to snap out of it. He moved slowly toward the door frame, peaking over at John. “So, you’re going to leave me alone…In our flat, while you go drinking with Lestrade, is that correct?” He asked this quite plainly, showing no emotion on his face at all. To be honest, he was actually jealous that John would choose Lestrade over him. When did this happen? Sherlock sighed, resting his head against the doorframe before hissing in pain. “Bloody…”

Sherlock reached up, about to rub his jaw but stopped, knowing the pain that would cause. “Fine…fine. Go out on your date. I didn’t come to see you for anything important after all. I have been dead for three years, there is nothing important to discuss.” He said rather sarcastically, walking back to the table to grab his stuff. He swung the cane over his shoulder and pushed the glasses into his hair while holding the rest in his hand. “I will just enjoy a dinner alone with Mrs. Hudson. We will talk about her lovely boyfriend who wears horse urine cologne.” Sherlock walked out of the room and passed John in the hallway without looking at him, he was about to walk out of the office before he heard John’s last question. A smile crossed his face as he kept his back to John. By the time he turned around, the smile was completely gone. “Why did I come back now? Possibly because I finally had a chance or I needed a good case…Pick the one you think works best. Now are you going to give me pain medication or do I need to find a drug dealer and then open a bottle of whiskey with Mrs. Hudson? That woman knows how to drink.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

John visibly bristled when Sherlock brooded in the door frame to his ready room. "It is not as if I'll be gone for three years." He hissed sourly, "Besides, you're just going to waltz in here and think we can pick up where we left off and everything will be just all hunky-dory now?" He said it with such bitterness because he had longed for life to return to normal for him for years now... Why should Sherlock have the pleasure of being able to just return and have everything as it was before without any consequences? "I made promises, I stick to them." He glowered at Sherlock, "you'd do best to do the same."

He paused and closed his eyes in a show of restrained frustration, sighing through flared nostrils, "It's not a date..." He huffed, "Maybe if you had called first I would have left something open for you!" He bellowed from his office into his ready room where Sherlock had turned away to. "Christ!" He hissed under his breath, having forgotten how insufferable and childish Sherlock could be. Sure, you didn't know what you had until it was gone, but maybe when you got it back you found how much you liked being rid of it in the first place. But he knew that was just his annoyance talking. If he wasn't so mad at the other man at the moment, maybe he would have been glad, relieved even...sentimental again.

John folded his arms across his chest as Sherlock stalked past him, watching him go with a clenched jaw. "How lovely, how very jolly good of you to whittle a little time out of your busy schedule to tell your only friend that 'oh, by the way, I'm not dead.'" If Sherlock truly was writing under the name Sigerson, he knew how busy the other had been indeed. But he couldn't even spare the time for a letter, an email...something to end the misery of a friend.

A muscle twitched in John's jaw and he unfolded his arms and tossed a small bottle to Sherlock. "Strong aspirin is all I'm giving you, anything stronger and you'll abuse it." He expressed a tight smile, "You're a big boy, and you can handle a little pain. Fell from a bloody roof, didn't you?" His keys jangled as he made for the door of the clinic but turned at the last second and hauling up short in front of Sherlock, looking directly up into his face, a bruise forming on his jaw from the earlier punch. "Are you going to tell me the real truth of 'why now', are you going to continue being an ass about it?" His eyes narrowed, "You're not back for chummy good times and catching up." If he felt at all that he still knew Sherlock at least half as well as he thought he had before...Sherlock wasn't so sentimental as to simply want to catch up and tell him all his wild adventures away from John.

"There's something else, isn't there...?" John's blue eyes could cut diamond. "Is anyone in danger...?" His voice was level, steady and low. His hands slid into his pockets, his fingers grazing his phone. If someone was in danger, he would text Lestrade in a heartbeat, he knew that. The meeting wasn’t so important anyway but he would be damned if he would bend under Sherlock's will like some pissant sidekick like the fictional stories on that dreadful site depicted him as being.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

There was a sting of pain as John responded with such anger. Yes, Sherlock already knew how angry his old friend was but hearing the words escalate was a different emotion entirely. Did Watson feel so much hatred toward him for the incident? No matter, John did speak the truth. Honestly, Sherlock did hope that they would somehow immediately return to their old relationship where they could kid around and mess with each other without a care in the world, giggling at crime scenes and all. He did miss that relationship. Well, it was one of the very few relationships Sherlock ever cared to keep up with. Was three years too long? This was a little too much emotion for Sherlock to handle. Immediately, as John continued to throw his verbal punches, he shut down entirely. His facial expressions froze as if someone had hit him hard enough in the head that he just stopped processing.

Yet he hadn’t stopped, he heard every word John said but he remained expressionless. He listened silently to the toxic words that kept oozing from John’s mouth. So this was how he had grown to think of him over these three years. Thinking back, he couldn’t blame him. After all, he used his only friend as a pawn in a game of chess. Unfortunately, for Sherlock that pawn was taken out before he could come back. So, he was still alive yet he lost the most important piece in his game.

He caught the bottle of medicine with his left hand. Curiously, he examined the bottle for a second before shoving it in his pocket. The ice cold male unraveled the dirty trench coat and slid it over his shoulders. He would have to make a couple of stops before going back to Baker Street. Sherlock ignored John’s comment on the medicine and slipped the pair of pants on over his own. His eyes remained distant and completely empty. He was about to walk back toward the door when John made his way to him. The sudden closeness of his old friend made him somewhat uncomfortable, the throbbing in his jaw seemed to get worse the closer he got. For a few seconds, he stared directly into the other man’s eyes, trying to deduce as much as he could without registering any emotions on his face.

So, this is what these three years had done to him? “It hasn’t been kind to you has it?” Sherlock spoke rather quietly yet with a voice like stone. He didn’t expect an answer because John would not know what he was talking about. Sherlock had made another mistake by coming here. As soon as he came back to London he made too many mistakes. Coming in contact with John before eliminating his stalker was a danger in its own right. However, he desired his old partner who used to have his back in situations like this. Yet that was before Sherlock used him as a piece in a game of chess and avoided him for the last three years. He was wrong to expect anything different. Watson was an old friend. A very, very good old friend. Though, this was not something that he should be drug into.

Sherlock waited for silence as John finished talking with enough toxins in his words to kill off the entire population of London. He glanced back at John’s eyes for a second before quickly pushing his glasses down and tugging the wig on. This was a mistake; he had been too careless by coming here. He wondered if Mycroft had mentioned this on his list of things not to do when going back to Baker Street. No one was in danger but John because of this. “No, are you joking? If someone was in danger don’t you think I would be the serial killer at this point? After all~ I am the fake detective who is dead. Maybe you’re just seeing things. I did use you to plan my own escape. You’re just a pawn to me. Stop caring and go on your date” Sherlock said this with absolutely no emotion. He slid past John and left the office, shutting the door quietly behind him before wondering out into the streets. Sherlock didn’t glance back; he had made a mistake on his way over here. Any other mistakes could lead to the death of Dr. John Watson. The ‘blind old man’ stumbled back onto the streets of London with a mix of odd emotions in his guts. He pushed the cane out in front of him, feeling out the ground. The game had just begun.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

John Watson knew a thing or two about how Sherlock worked. When he saw the brightness in those icy blue-grey eyes dim and a shutter go down over the expressions, he knew Sherlock was drawing away, drawing into himself and shutting everything else out. He had hurt his old friend...

There was a moment of satisfaction. Good! So he felt the same hurt he had those three years ago, being allowed to believe that his best friend was dead. No one should have to live with that if it was a lie. But then the satisfaction fizzled out and John was left feeling hollow and like a little shit. He blinked as Sherlock shot back words without any passion behind them, the comment about being a pawn still stinging a little. He let him go, watching him from the front stoop of the clinic as he walked away, once again clad in his disguise.

Torn. He was torn; he could go after Sherlock, apologize, give into that small part of himself he was struggling with that wanted to return to the old ways again and be comfortable in it. Or, he could let him walk away; perhaps never hear of him again. Without John, Sherlock wouldn't blog. Sherlock wouldn't eat. Sherlock wouldn't sleep. Sherlock would sit around between cases doped out on cocaine. Sherlock wouldn't take over three-fourths of his cases simply because they were not a nine or above. John gripped the railing of the stair leading down from the clinic and sucked in a sharp breath to call after his friend. But Sherlock was gone, having turned the corner down the street, whacking that damned stick about like the blind man he was impersonating. John pursed his lips. Well, he had survived three years on his own; god only knew how he had survived to reach his twenties anyhow.

John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and he drew it out, hoping oddly enough that it was Sherlock, maybe one last witty jibe or remark he had failed to mention. But it was Lestrade, asking if their night at the pub was still on. He paused, looked back down the street with furrowed brows, and then conceded.

 

_To: Lestrade_   
_From: John_   
_Message: Sounds good._   
_You're not going to believe what I've been through today..._

 

John pressed send and caught a cab back to his flat after locking up the clinic. It was a short jaunt over streets, asking the cabbie to take an alternate route from Baker Street. He really didn't want to chance another sighting of Sherlock, wondering if it would be better for the both of them to simply believe that none of it had happened at all, just as Sherlock suggested. But how dumb and depressing was that?

Climbing out of the cab, John unlocked the door to the complex and went upstairs to his room number, unlocking the front door. It was rather a spartan flat as he was still accustomed to living like a man in the army, his laptop sitting on a plain oak desk. There was also a plain old bed with drab grey sheets, an unadorned couch with a tiny telly and a poorly stocked fridge. When one lived alone, one tended to eat out of noodle cups.

John changed out of his jumper and slacks into jeans and a collared button down, tugging on his cream sweater and pushing up the sleeves to his elbows, the cuffs poking out from beneath. Pocketing his wallet, John moved to the desk to check his email from his laptop and glanced up and out of the window. He saw a figure in the evening gloom light a cigarette down by a street lamp and glance up at his window, people passing around him. He stood by a newspaper stand across the way and John wracked his brain for a moment, swearing he'd seen this fellow before. Was he a patient?

Frowning, John wondered if it was his old paranoia or simply common sense approaching him now. It seemed that where ever Sherlock was involved, some kind of danger or violence soon followed. Pulling open a bottom drawer of his desk, John looked down into its depths to see his old army pistol laying there. He reached inside and checked its cartridge. He still had ammo...from those times Sherlock would tell him to bring it along, he had stocked up at the time. Now it had seemed silly. But he had kept it anyway.

Straightening, he clicked the safety into place and pushed the gun into the back waistband of his jeans, pulling his bulky sweater down over it to obscure it beneath the brown leather jacket he tugged on lastly. When he looked out the window again, the stranger was gone.

The pub he and Lestrade frequented was only three blocks away from John's new flat. It was silly really, the regularity with which they shared meals. Lestrade was still struggling with his wife these days and often times found it easier to sleep in hotels than at home, so he spent a lot of his evening free time over a pint and old talk with John. Sadly, their conversations always seemed to turn to Sherlock. Lestrade had told him of the times before he'd gotten to know the late detective and both had amused themselves wondering exactly what kind of childhood it had to take for a man to grow up like Sherlock. But those conversations would be fewer now, John knew that.

Using a parked flatbed truck alongside the sidewalk to check behind him, John almost scowled when he took notice of a notable figure reflected back at him. He was scruffy; his clothes mismatched and drab, the kind of person who would blend into the colors of London and you wouldn't take a second glance at...unless he was following you. John wondered if Sherlock had set one of his homeless irregulars onto him in hopes of figuring out more of his routine, as if he didn't already know it. John hardly deviated from what he usually did, a creature of habit. But as he neared the pub, he passed it by, deciding if this was going to get even more childish, better to nip it in the bud before it got out of hand. He texted Lestrade:

 

_To: Lestrade_   
_From: John_   
_Message: Sorry..._   
_Something's come up; a patient. Can we reschedule? Next Sunday?_

 

Pocketing his phone, John used another parked car's mirror to get an assessment but he didn't see anyone. Crossing the street, he turned around and caught a cab, "Baker street, please." He instructed the cabbie as he got in, only this time he wasn't going to pay Mrs. Hudson a visit.

Twenty minutes later, John stood at the stoop of 221B Baker Street and reached into his pants pocket, extracting the key he had insisted on keeping in case of an emergency for Mrs. Hudson, he also looked after the flat when she went to visit her sister. Inserting the key, he let himself in and glanced over his shoulder as he shut the door. "Mrs. Hudson!" He called, wondering if Sherlock had even been to see her...

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Sherlock had left the street John’s office was on without another thought. There was not a shred of doubt in his mind that he had been followed to the office. He must have been too careless with the cabs. The assassin who had been tracking Sherlock around Europe had finally gotten his chance to hit him where it hurts. But that did not mean his assassin was invisible. Oh no, it just meant he would have to move faster and without any more mistakes. Getting away from John was the best move he could make at the moment. For some reason, being near the male clouded his judgment. He needed silence and he needed it quick. Sherlock ducked into an alleyway with garbage piled on either side. He fixed the cotton hat on his head as he continued to whack objects around him with the cane. However, he stopped mid-way down the alley next to the large garbage pile. His head snapped back and forth, seeing no one near him, he literally tossed himself into the pile.

About two minutes later an entirely different person walked out of the alleyway. He no longer was wearing a wig nor glasses or a cane. Instead he was wearing an extremely dirty and heavy coat that was patched up on the outside. Someone was following him, he had to lose the trail and quickly especially before his next stop. Sherlock grabbed a cart beside a garbage skip and began pushing it in front of himself. He moved slowly, limping softly on his left leg. He hobbled through the streets, people purposely avoiding him. He was now a worthless piece of trash everyone overlooked.

Now he was able to move around people without worrying about being spotted. Sherlock moved slowly down to an underground sewer opening under a bridge and pushed his cart down, finding himself to be surrounded by others who were dressed in similar attire. He would need to take a long shower after this. Sherlock continued to hobble slowly towards one woman sitting against the wall, a large garbage bag sitting by her side. Without a word, he pulled out a paper envelop and handed it to her. In return she passed him the heavy bag and he tossed it into the cart. She gave him a toothy smile before Sherlock lost interest and turned to make his leave. That was, of course, before he approached a man further down in the tunnels. Once again he gave him another envelop but this one was different. The man opened up the envelope, checking its contents before handing Sherlock a small brown bag. The messy and rather disgusting Sherlock smiled crookedly before turning away rather quickly and leaving with both bags in the cart.

He made his way back up onto the streets, wandering around carefully yet with a reckless air as if he had nowhere to go. Soon he turned into a dark alleyway, glancing behind him a few times before moving closer to the brick wall. Quickly and in a matter of seconds, Sherlock grabbed the two bags from the cart and pushed himself through the side door to a local restaurant he knew well. Sherlock had closely planned out this route. This door led him to the kitchen of Angelo’s, who he had saved from the death sentence on charges of murder long ago. The Italian man walked into the kitchen and quickly wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s smelly and disgusting form. “You! Oh, I’ve missed you! Are you hungry? Food? I can cook for you! Anything you want!” The man laughed, squeezing him a little too tightly, causing Sherlock to flinch in pain.

Sherlock pulled away, irritation playing on his features. “I am fine, you have the stuff I asked for right?” He spoke quickly, not caring about anything else this man might possibly talk about. Not even about his vacation to China or his new fiancée who loves to leave hickeys all over his neck. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief when the man handed him a black tote bag. Without saying any form of thanks, the irritated and focused Sherlock grabbed the bag and began stripping off his clothing in the middle of the kitchen. Quickly, he dressed in some normal clothing that he wouldn’t mind being spotted in and didn’t spell like rotten food. He washed all the mud and make up off his face before continuing to clean out his hair over their hand washing station. He brushed it all back, watching as it curled naturally.

Sherlock took the plastic bag and the paper one he had acquired and put it inside the large black tote bag. The smelly clothing he shoved in another plastic bag and threw into the garbage. No traces left behind. With that, he grabbed the bag and tossed it over his shoulder as he made his way out of the front door of the Italian restaurant. Sherlock felt the dire urge to yawn yet he fought it off, remembering the warning John gave him. What he would do to have his old partner back.

Ignoring the pain, Sherlock began to whistle as he walked down the street in the open and toward Baker Street. He wanted his lovely assassin to see him. Correction, he needed his assassin to see him. If he didn’t, which he had to, there would be a huge problem in his plan. As Sherlock walked up to 221B, he took out his key and unlocked the door. As he expected, he walked into the building to smell the fresh scent of cooking. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t let him down. So maybe he should have picked her as a best friend. He sighed at the thought, walking into the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson cooking pleasantly, humming a soft tune. Without a word, Sherlock took a seat at the table and let his head fall into the table repeatedly. Mrs. Hudson turned around in alarm. “Oh, dear! Are you alright? Don’t startle me like that. This is the second time today! You gave me a horrible scare earlier! You know you have a lot of explaining to do…Where is John? I thought you said he was going to be coming back with you.” She spoke rather in confusion, still holding a spoon in her hand. Sherlock could feel the aching pain in his jaw getting worse by the second; he needed to take that medicine now. Either that or he could use the medicine he bought from the guy in the sewers. However, it wasn’t a smart idea considering how soon Sherlock would be encountering his stalker.

“Nothing is wrong.” He sighed, raising his head, a purpling bruise now stretching across his jaw line. Mrs. Hudson’s expression became more worried as she immediately took out an ice pack and placed it on the table in front of Sherlock. “Here…I am not going to ask…But will you just explain what is going on?” She spoke rather softly. Rather unlike the nosy landlady he remembered. However, Sherlock stood up and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the fridge. He opened it and took the bottle of medicine Watson had given him. He placed it on the table and glanced over at Mrs. Hudson. “Give me the strongest pain killers you have and we will talk.” Sherlock hissed in pain, taking a sip of the whiskey.  
“You boys now-a-days, always demanding drugs and alcohol!” Mrs. Hudson rambled on before she reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out a prescription bottle. “Here, my old doctor gave me this when I had that hip surgery. Only take one!” She smiled sweetly, passing Sherlock the bottle.

Sherlock opened it, pouring four pills into the palm of his hand before putting them in his mouth and chugging a good amount of the bottle. With that he let out a big sigh and grabbed his tote bag and tossed it onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud. He began opening the bag and immediately Mrs. Hudson grew worried. It was clear she was wondering if there was a severed head in the bag. “No Mrs. Hudson, there are no body parts in here. Well, that’s not entirely true, my head is in here.” She stared at him wide eyed as Sherlock literally pulled out an exact replica of his head. Well to be more exact it was a wax carving of Sherlock’s body from the elbow up. The damn thing was rather heavy.  
“What on earth are you doing with that?” Mrs. Hudson shrieked as she began to follow Sherlock rushing up the stairs and into his old room.

“You see my dear Mrs. Hudson; someone is trying to kill me. They are going to be waiting for me to be up in this room tonight. However, this bust will act as my dummy. For you see, I will not be up here when they shoot me. They will only find the wax bust and that’s where you come in Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock laughed loudly, placing the wax bust on a table, just low enough so that only the elbows and the head were visible through the window. He shut the curtain and examined it.  
Mrs. Hudson on the other hand was staring at Sherlock as if he had gone mad. “Sherlock, I think you have taken to many pills, dear. Perhaps you should lie down. No one would believe that a motionless figure is a person.” She said, trying to lead the laughing Sherlock to one of the chairs by the fireplace.

”That is correct! However that is where you come in! I will take care of the shooter but you must simply move the bust around every so often.” He laughed again, falling back in the seat while Mrs. Hudson looked at him with a worried expression.

“If I do that, you must clean out that God awful fridge.” As Mrs. Hudson said this, there was the sound of John’s voice calling out from down stairs. Sherlock nodded at her, and she went off down stairs to find John. “Doctor?” Mrs. Hudson whispered softly as she climbed down the stairs. “Shh. Lower your voice. Sherlock is upstairs…He said he was going to see you but he came back with this awful red mark on his face. I think he has gone mad. He keeps talking about some kind of killer.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

John looked up when he heard the creak of the second stair from the top, remembering it was the one you avoided if you wanted to sneak in quietly, not that it ever mattered when it came to Sherlock's hearing. "Mrs. Hudson, what are you talking about?" He frowned, listening to the excitable woman. Well, the red mark on Sherlock's jaw was from him of course, but she would scold him if she knew so he did not mention that. But a killer... "Don't you worry yourself Mrs. Hudson, I'll have a look...but what is that lovely smell from the kitchen?" He prompted her, smiling at his friend and old landlady, moving past her up the stairs. He skipped the second from the top and entered the old digs he hadn't stepped foot in in nearly three full years. It was odd to do so now, but even odder to see the figure of his friend sprawled out in his old chair before the hearth as if nothing had transpired. He looked like a doll without strings, as if someone had simply plopped him there.

"Sherlock?" John stepped cautiously towards his friend, his cane in hand. He hadn't realized he had grabbed it from his flat before he had left, but he noticed it now, realizing he hadn't needed it on the way up the stairs that used to give him hell to climb. He set it against his old chair as an afterthought and moved around Sherlock to close the other shade over the second window. "Sherlock, how many aspirin did you take?" The stalker forgotten, John moved around to face Sherlock, crouching in front of his chair and nudging his knee to get him to look at him. "Or did you take something else...?" Frowning, John noticed the wax bust, mostly because at this angle, the face of the bust was in perfect alignment with his friend's face. "What is that for?" He looked on in confusion, "Mrs. Hudson is in a state, something about a killer. That would explain why someone was dogging me here." He heaved a long, world weary sigh and stood, moving towards the old kitchen and past the table with the long scratch in it. He rooted through cupboards until he found the cups he knew were bio-hazard free, filling it with some water and returning to Sherlock, insisting, "Drink this. God, you smell awful. Been rolling in a garbage heap?" He meant it as some comic relief but it sounded a little harsher than he intended. After their exchange at the clinic, he couldn't help but feel a little more of that guilt, as well as weariness over Sherlock's state. Naturally he would turn to drugs to sate any kind of pain, emotional or physical. "Are you going to tell me what's going on now?" He asked in a softer tone, sitting down in his old chair with a pang of memory. It was, again, as if nothing had changed...God damn him.

With a long, slow breath, John bit down on the heavy memories attached to such a name and said, "Is it to do with Moriarty...?" John's hands tightened convulsively on the arms of his chair. Sherlock may have been an ass about things, but he knew without a doubt if there was a single person alive who still wished to do harm to the man he had otherwise assumed dead until this morning, there wasn't a single soul or thing that would keep him from defeating that person. Even if it was Moriarty himself. Back then, three years earlier, he would have given a lot to wring the neck of that very man. Unfortunately, he hadn't the privilege. "What is your plan...?" John murmured, the flickering flames of a stocked fire making shadows against his face dance, the living area gloomier with the shades drawn and the lights off.


	2. Whiskey Ruminations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another assassin apprehended and our story moves ahead; slowly at first, tentatively. But we're making headway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loretta and I are so pleased we've had so many readers and the kudos are very much appreciated! We'd love to hear what you think of our growing tale and would absolutely die happy with some feed back! We are so excited to present you with another chapter, we hope you relish it and look forward to the next installment a week from today! Thank you so much for any and all support for our fledgling story. <3

Sherlock couldn’t help but appreciate Mrs. Hudson to her fullest capabilities. Well, to be exact, he appreciated her for her medicine cabinet. Thanks to the whiskey, which gave the medication a kick boost, the pain had completely left his body. All that remained was a slight numbness that echoed across his whole body and not just his jaw. As he sat by the fire place, he was tempted to yawn yet he held it back again. It would be wonderful to fall asleep here yet he was not safe. No one in this building was safe. That was when he heard John making his way up the steps. After their little disagreement at John’s office, he wasn’t expecting to see him here. Then again, it was John. He was a friend not some crazy psychopath.  
  
Sherlock leaned back in the chair completely relaxed for a few moments. He sat there merely listening to the sound of his friend’s voice. It was rather comforting in this sense. The first kick of the medication had sent his head reeling but he had to gain control of it. Now wasn’t the time to lose control of anything. John was risking his life by entering this room. Mrs. Hudson was risking her life by agreeing to help him. However, no one would die. No one _could_ die.

Sherlock listened quietly to John, his eyes gazing down at his friend. He took the cup he handed him, his slender fingers taping against the glass for a few moments. It was almost time to start the game. Sherlock couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle as John mentioned how badly he smelled. “That’s because I was rolling in garbage.” He spoke softer, in almost a whispering tone. Sherlock waited a moment until John had finished talking to move. Slowly he slid himself off of the couch and onto the floor directly in front of John. So, he did mess things up, John was being followed. Wonderful.  
  
He continued to dither about with the cup in his hands softly. “Moriarty died on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. One of his men, Sebastian Moran, did not believe I died that day. We fooled just about everyone but him and he has been tracking me since the death of Moriarty. Never gave up, actually.” He tried to let out another yawn but fought down the impulse again. Sherlock kept his voice down, lowering his head. It began to get darker outside. “I couldn’t come back here; he was too close on my trail. That was until he made a mistake. The last murder, the case you are currently working on with Lestrade was the work of Moriarty’s right hand man. I saw it and decided to take this to my advantage.” He glanced across the room at the ceramic bust made in his image, “The bust is my trap for that persistent idiot. I have been taking measures to assure Moran has been watching me, I have certain evidence that would suggest he will attempt to murder me tonight.” He paused for a second, before placing the mug on the floor by his leg. Slowly and awkwardly, Sherlock began to crawl across the sitting room, staying close to the rug so that he could not be seen through any of the windows. “It’s not safe here, we have to get out and catch him before he shoots the figure he takes for me. He will be in the building across from this one, in a room on the same level as our sitting room, it’s an empty flat. And if you’re still wondering what I took, it wasn’t your measly aspirin; it was Mrs. Hudson’s surgery pain killers. A lively dosage of four pills if you must know…Can’t feel a thing.” Sherlock mumbled the last part as he crawled out of the room and to the stair case. Once he was out of view of the window he began to walk down the flight of stairs. “Mrs. Hudson. Move the wax bust in exactly two minutes. Stay on the ground and keep your body hidden. We will be back later for dinner.” Sherlock spoke softly still, walking her kitchen. From there he pried the window open and waited for John, motioning to the window like some Vanna White rendition.

 

 

~ * ~

 

John paused as Sherlock moved off of his chair and crouched on the floor. He glanced up at the window and felt that old, familiar jump in his pulse that hinted at the beginnings of an adrenaline rush. There was danger and the low tone in Sherlock's voice spoke volumes. John slowly sunk down off his chair into a crouch as well, surprised when his leg didn't protest as it would have yesterday. He felt the cool, firm pressure of his pistol settled at the small of his back, glad now that he had brought it along. "Sebastian Moran..." John tested the name on his lips and found it familiar. He had heard of cases going through the court with this name mentioned but there were never any charges pressed and everything was always swept under the rug, the man had never even been arrested and had walked into court of his own free will both times he had been there. He was a slick one indeed if he could maneuver so freely.  
  
Thinking back over the details of the case Lestrade was currently working on; John remembered the brutal death and the state of the body of the victim. "Silent weapon, small caliber bullet, fired from a sniper rifle, probably with the use of a scope judging by the distance the bullet traveled. A very large scope..." John pursed his lips and heard his blood start to thunder in his ears. If this man was after Sherlock, there would be a great struggle. "But Sherlock, if the others were fooled now, once we nab Moran your name will become public once more and the other enemies will come out of the woodwork." John watched Sherlock crawl towards the open door to the stair and followed at a crouch, glancing at the eerie image of Sherlock in the form of the bust about to play sacrifice.  
  
"You would have to go back into hiding again." John stood at the top of the stairs behind Sherlock and followed him down. When Sherlock admitted what he had taken for the pain in his jaw, John almost raised a fuss...but knew Sherlock wouldn't have taken the drugs if he hadn't punched him. He bit his tongue, but he did say, "You really shouldn't take pain medications with alcohol Sherlock, it is suicide." He grumbled, nodding to Mrs. Hudson and kissing her cheek as they passed her by, Sherlock giving her instructions. When he turned around, Sherlock had pried the back kitchen window open and he sighed heavily.  
  
"Always fond of running and theatrics..." He muttered, getting a leg up on the counter and pulling himself through the window, reaching out to balance himself on Mrs. Hudson's bins until he could lower his feet back onto the ground. He was glad she had removed the rose bushes here last year; otherwise they would be in a world of pain throughout this maneuver. Well, not Sherlock, for he was thoroughly doped out it would seem. "Give me your hand." John reached up in offering for Sherlock, braced to balance him as the detective levered himself out the window next. Once Sherlock was out, John raised his hand in farewell to Mrs. Hudson, who peered out at them from between her lace curtains.  
  
"Now you be careful boys!" She hissed with a little wave, "Go catch a nice murderer." Her eyes twinkled.  
  
John turned to Sherlock, "Your move." He nodded down the back alley that ran between both sets of flats. "But shouldn't we call Lestrade?"

 

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock watched as John dropped out of the window. The doctor was finally using his leg. A smile crossed his face before he grabbed his coat, slipping it over his shoulders. He turned back to Mrs. Hudson first, opening his arms wide and hugging the older woman tightly. She tensed, “Sherlock, dear? Are you okay? I told you only take one of those pills.” She said rather nervously as Sherlock pulled away, keeping his hands on her shoulders.

“I am brilliant Mrs. Hudson! Move the bust as I told you. The game has _finally_ started!” He laughed softly before turning back to the window where John was waiting. He reached out and grabbed the army doctor’s hand, wrapping his fingers around the other man’s wrist as he lowered himself to the ground. The darker haired male, brushed himself off and took a deep breath. “I really do stink, don’t I?” He asked honestly, already knowing the answer to that question. ”Don’t worry; I have done much worse things than drinking whiskey with medicine.” He laughed before turning away from John. “In this case, attraction of unwanted enemies is unavoidable. It’s a simple price; my dear brother already erased my records from before. However, new enemies will be of no issue. I am not in the mood to go into hiding after three years of constant running. You have no idea how long it’s been since I have actually slept in a bed.” He laughed, brushing his fingers through his curly hair. “Besides, judging by the way you jumped out of that window, you have missed the feel of the chase. Maybe this will make life more entertaining for us both.”  
  
Sherlock turned around, and started to walk down the back alleyway, turning away from Baker Street. No one could have seen them leave, therefore no one could follow them. He glanced back at John, speaking in a hushed tone, “If we call Lestrade now, our cover would be blown. At the first scent of police Moran would be long gone. We will have to handle this very carefully…Moran has not entered the building across from Baker Street yet. But he soon shall and we must beat him there and do it very quickly. Now that my bust is distracting him he will see the perfect clear shot to kill me, or so he believes. Moran will leave his hiding spot and he will go into the flat across from ours to find the perfect angle in the empty room on the second floor across the street from 221B. Trust me, I checked all other possibilities.” Sherlock smiled back at John before pushing his collar up and tugging the hat over his head to cover some of his most noticeable facial features. He walked out onto the parallel running street on the other side of their flat and took an immediate right, following the street down. “Keep your head down John and don’t punch anyone else in the face.” He mumbled softly.  
Sherlock kept quiet for the next few blocks, moving quickly but not quite at a run. Once they had walked to the end of the street, Sherlock made another quick turn down an ally way. This time he ran down the length of the ally before skidding to a stop at the very end. Leaning back against the wall of the building, he peaked out around the corner to glance down the street. Further down, he could just make out Baker Street. They were at a safe enough distance away that the shooter wouldn’t be able tospot them if they walked across the street.  
  
As quick as Sherlock could manage, he dashed across the street and down into another ally directly across from them. He held his breath tightly; glancing back to make sure John was okay before walking behind the set of flats that ran the length of their own neighbor’s homes across the road, counting each off mentally. Finally he came upon the one he desired, the empty flat directly across from 221B. A fire escape was located on the back, which led up all the way to the top of the building. Sherlock flipped a garbage can over and jumped onto it, steadying himself carefully before jumping up and intertwining his fingers around the last rung of the metal ladder. Without a word to John he began climbing up the fire escape and continued up to the third floor silently. Slowly he pushed a window open, unlocked from his last trip here. He glanced back down at John Watson with an expressionless face before sliding his slim body into the empty room. No one lived in this building that was for sure, the thick layer of dust on the wood floor was remarkable, making it easy to spot footprints. He could note his own from his investigations a few days ago, and new that another pair lay smudged into the dust just outside this room. A larger, wider set of boots that had used the main entrance downstairs instead of Sherlock’s chosen window.

Sherlock waited a moment for John before very carefully walking across the room and into a hallway. There was a door leading to another room across from the doorway he stood in, this empty sitting room faced the street side of the flat and Sherlock crept across to it and let out a sigh of relief at finding it untouched since his last visit. They had managed to get here before Moran. The window in the room had a clear view of the window to the sitting room in 221B, the wax bust currently moving slightly to the right, the great head turning. “John, message Lestrade with this location as soon as you hear someone enter from downstairs. Not any moment sooner nor a moment later.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

John grunted as Sherlock grasped his hand, reaching up with his other in case Sherlock stumbled so he might catch him. But the other male jumped to the ground with little trouble and John let go of him, his hand tingling from the pressure of the detective’s hand around his wrist...at least that was what he told himself it was from. His brows lifted at Sherlock's first comment, pursing his lips and nodding emphatically, "Oh yes, very much." Sherlock smelled very rank indeed. He plastered a tight-lipped smile on his face to lessen the blow of the truth. "And that's not what a doctor wants to hear." He muttered looking both ways down the alley they currently stood in, looking for any sign of a lurking figure and trying not to think of the cocktail currently coursing through his former flat mate’s veins. "Well," he said between glances, "after this business with Moran is laid to rest, I am prescribing you a week’s rest." He muttered, giving Sherlock one of his pointed looks, "Speaking as your doctor, and as your… friend." They began to walk in the opposite direction he had assumed they would, but he followed anyhow, skirting the side of the building and dodging around bins. "Oh, God yes..." He muttered in reply to Sherlock's statement. He had missed this...that wasn't hard to admit to anyone. Going from a life of excitement and solving crime to a life of diagnosing colds and common sprains was not an easy let down.  
  
He did his best to keep to Sherlock's heels, falling into step beside him when there was enough room for him to comfortably do so. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and tipped his chin down, glancing at Sherlock sidelong as he spoke. "Peachy..." He grunted, not having missed those narrow windows of time they always seemed to be racing towards in their cases. He huffed out a short laugh under his breath, "I'll try to contain myself." Honestly, it wasn’t as if he just went around punching everybody. You had to be a bloody sod first…  
  
He was out of breath by the time they had crossed over from another street and darted back onto Baker Street, dashing headlong down an alleyway. John glanced over his shoulder back the way they had come but spotted no one. Reaching the end of the alleyway, it was fenced off and Sherlock looked up, then turned in a full circle, and hastily grabbed an empty bin. He toppled it and leaped up onto it with the keenness of a leopard on the trail of a scent. John spread his hands as Sherlock climbed up the escape ladder, blowing out an annoyed breath, "Oh alright, just leave 'im to it and ditch the cripple." He grunted as he jumped up onto the bottom of the bin, "Still thinks he's all cool with his turned up collar and stupid hat...I thought you hated that hat." He muttered under his breath as he just barely reached the bottom rung of the ladder. "You are aware that you are still very much taller than I." He hissed, pulling himself up along the ladder with some of that old army strength. He made it to the window Sherlock had disappeared into and let his eyes adjust to the absolute darkness. Reaching around his side he extracted the Sig Sauer P226R from the waistband of his jeans and flipped the safety, chambering a round and holding it parallel with his leg, muzzle pointing at the ground. He nodded wordlessly at Sherlock and the pair filed down the hallway. The interior was nearly a direct duplicate of their own flat, with the bathroom on the left and further down the hall, a door into the sitting room and a door into the kitchen that connected. There was a stair leading up to what would have been John's rooms, and a turn in the hall ahead that left you at the stairs down to the ground floor, a room across from that stair that Sherlock would have occupied.  
  
They ducked into the would-be sitting room and John squeezed past Sherlock to clear the room with his pistol. "No one's here." He agreed as Sherlock spoke. He nodded at the instruction, pulling out his phone for easier access. Slipping silently up to the unadorned window, he kept to the shadows and peered out, lowering himself into a crouch before the corner of the sill. As the bust moved, John smiled, "Very good Mrs. Hudson." he chuckled softly and turned to Sherlock, nodding towards the hallways that lead to the bedroom behind the kitchen. "Shall we hide?" He crept back away from the window and back towards Sherlock.  
  
There was the sound of a door closing downstairs and John pushed Sherlock back towards the hall along the kitchen, using his free hand to pull up a text to Lestrade:

  
  
 _To: Lestrade_  
From: John  
Message: Cat and Mouse  
We have our killer Lestrade, the one that escaped. He's here on Baker Street, empty house across the way. Need the police’s help now!

  
  
He sent it off and shut the light of his phone off, pocketing it and peering out into the sitting room from their hiding spot. A dark figure in a heavy coat and beanie hat slid soundlessly through the dark towards the window, ducking down at the sill and setting a heavy sounding case down beside him. The trespasser watched 221B for a moment or two and John tightened his grip on the pistol in his hand, glancing at Sherlock. They waited as Moran opened the case, drew out the bits and pieces of a long range gun, and put together an L115A3 sniper rifle complete with a snub silencer on the end, which he screwed into place at the end of the long barrel. Laying the gun across his lap, he silently wedged the window open enough to allow his gun space and a clear sight through the scope to be manageable. He crouched for the shot and John silently hoped that Mrs. Hudson wasn't in the room at the moment. They heard the click, the resounding whoosh of compressed air and the short hiss of a bullet leaving the gun, connected with the shattering of glass across the street.  
  
John glanced at Sherlock, and moved forward from their hiding spot, bringing his pistol up and aiming it at the back of Moran's head.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock remained silent inside the empty flat, his eyes moving around the darkness rapidly. He didn’t respond to John’s comments from before, letting him have the last word, which was rather unusual. Then again, the older male did have quite a time getting into the building in one piece. The army doctor would eventually get back into his old physical shape, but at the moment, he wasn’t exactly strapping. Step one for getting John Watson back into shape was to get rid of the psychosomatic limp and then the second step was to have the doctor run about London with him. Thus were the physical matters of fixing one John Hamish Watson. Considering what the capture of Sebastian Moran will end up doing to Sherlock’s now nonexistent reputation and career, he would no longer be a dead man in the eye of the public. After this case, his face would return. Fortunately, not with the god awful hat he was wearing. Although after running around Europe for three years, he would much rather take the hat.  
  
“Hiding, yes. Just wa-.”Sherlock was cut off when he felt Watson pushing him back into the kitchen. He immediately stopped talking, crouching back cautiously and trusting John’s instincts. Oh god, he missed this. He smiled softly, glancing over John’s shoulders to see the words of his text message to Lestrade. There was something about John being so ‘buddy, buddy’ with Lestrade that he didn’t like. No, it couldn’t have been jealousy, possibly irritation but not jealousy.

As soon as the doctor began to turn around, Sherlock immediately looked away, standing close behind John to peer out at the room from their hiding place. His breath became silent as the dark figure came into the room. Sherlock silently glanced back over at John before he slowly began to take silent steps out across the empty sitting room, keeping to the shadows and out of the light from the window as Moran prepared the rifle and eventually shot the wax bust. He stayed crouched low to the ground until that single shot was fired. After all, this would be worthless if Moran did not fire that shot.  
  
Sherlock paused, watching as John moved in and pointed his gun at the back of Moran’s head. “Well hello again, Sebastian Moran. I suppose this is a welcome party you have constructed for me?” He spoke loudly, immediately gaining the attention of the man. Moran turned around sharply, the gun in hand, pointing directly at Sherlock. Moran’s eyes widened in shock, “You!” He yelled, glancing back at the wax bust that remained unmoved. Just as the older man looked away, Sherlock stepped closer, moving out along the length of the rifle and placing his slender hand on the underside of the barrel, he pushed the length of the gun back and up in a jerking motion. The back end of the rifle delivered a glancing blow to Moran’s ribs and Sherlock threw a mean right hook that connected with Moran’s nose.  
  
However, this former army solider and hunter were built a bit more like a brick house than Sherlock. Moran’s head only jerked to the side for a second under the force of the blow before his focus was snapping back at Sherlock. Moran grabbed up his rifle again, jabbing Sherlock in the stomach with the end of the barrel. His finger twitched towards the trigger, wanting to end this business obviously. But Sherlock was retreating, making another grab for the end of the rifle, intending to push it aloft again. He changed tactics in an instant, bringing the gun up horizontally and slamming the broad side of it against Sherlock’s chest, forcing it up against Sherlock’s throat as the detective stumbled back and became pinned to the dusty wall. Sherlock’s hands scrabbled at the hard metal of the rifle, trying to dislodge it for a much needed gasp of air, his lungs empty from the shock of colliding with the wall. Unfortunately, Moran was a former solider and while Sherlock was strong, he was not as strong as Moran.  
  
He struggled to push the assassin off him, pushing at the gun with all his might. The restriction on his throat was causing his body’s muscles to tighten to an extreme. If it wasn’t for that medication Mrs. Hudson had given him, this would be a lot more painful. But he also might have been a fraction of a bit more focused and capable if he hadn’t taken those pills…and the whiskey. Damn.

 

 

~ * ~

 

John kept his gun trained on Moran as the man whipped around at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He kept a heavy stare on the man, watching for any subtle shifts to indicate an attack. He knew he couldn't shoot Moran, at least not in any vital area, if they wanted to bring him up on charges of murder and attempted murder they would need him alive. Sherlock made the first move against Moran and John changed his position, keeping his distance until he would be needed, keeping both men in his line of sight and trying to get a clear shot where he could be sure he wouldn’t end up grazing or horribly injuring Sherlock.  
  
As the figure turned the tables and brought the rifle up, John looked for an opening, and as Moran forced the weight of his gun against Sherlock's throat, choking him into the wall, John flipped the gun around in his hand and cracked the butt of his pistol hard against the back of Moran's head. He pulled the murderer away from Sherlock in his moment of weakness from the blow and extracted the rifle from his hands as he went down. Red and blue lights flashed from the street down below, casting leaping and flickering shadows onto the walls from their two standing figures. John kept his pistol trained on their quarry but he was hunched over the ground holding his head, groaning in pain. John set the rifle in the corner by the open window and rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Are you alright?" He spared his friend a glance but kept the brunt of his attention on Moran.  
  
He wanted to pay more attention to the condition of his friend, but he knew better than to take his eyes off a threat. Many pairs of steps came thundering up the stairs in that moment and Lestrade appeared behind two cops who saw Moran and muscled him up from the ground, struggling to get a pair of cuffs on him. Lestrade saw John first, and then he saw Sherlock...and then he froze.  
  
"What the hell is going on here?!" He bellowed, "Sherlock Holmes!?" He looked at John, who was in the process of slipping his pistol back into the waistband of his jeans. Then he trained his booming voice on Sherlock, "I saw your bloody body at Bart’s!" He came closer, looking Sherlock over, "I must be going mad..." He muttered, looking at his John in complete bewilderment.  
  
"Perhaps he should join us for dinner if you're going to explain?" He looked to Sherlock with raised brows. The two cops were muscling Moran downstairs to load into a panda car, the assassin’s shouts of rage echoing up the staircase towards them.

 

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock struggled to breath underneath the pressure of Moran’s rifle, he was about to kick the former solider in the balls when John intervened. He was thankful for that, clutching his throat as he tried to get his breathing back to normal. Sherlock shifted his gaze up, straightening his posture while leaning against the wall for a moment. He glanced back at John as he stood over the Moran with both his army pistol and the suspect rifle. This was why Sherlock had wanted to get his friend before trying to hunt down Moran. Having someone to watch your back was more than helpful, it was paramount. It took him a minute before he was able to collect himself, pushing away from the wall and moving over to the window as the footsteps of the police echoed throughout the walls of the empty flat.  
  
Wonderful, he would be able to meet Lestrade again it seemed. From where he stood, Sherlock could spot Mrs. Hudson across the street. She had turned another light on in the sitting room and was now peering through the shattered window to look at all the flashing lights of the cop cars down in the street below. She hadn’t been harmed in in any event, which was a pleasant thought for him. No one had been hurt today. Well, if he were being completely frank, John had dislocated his jaw today. Now reminded of it, Sherlock reached up and carefully traced his fingers along the bruised flesh and bone at the side of his abused jaw. This would look rather telling in pictures for a short while.  
  
Sherlock looked round as he heard Lestrade entering the empty sitting room, “Inspector Lestrade!” He called out to the man, mimicking the tone Lestrade had used in calling out for him. He raised his arms dramatically in the air before putting them back down. ”Yes, you did see me smashed up on the pavement. Now if you go over to my flat, you will find my head with a bullet hole through it. Mrs. Hudson picked it up off the floor. You will find that it is the exact same bullet that was found at the crime scene of your late murder victim, if not many others.” Sherlock spoke quickly, pointing at the window and to Mrs. Hudson, who was still peeking out of the jagged edges of said window.  
  
He paused, hearing John utter the name ‘Greg’. He soundlessly mouthed the name for a second, “Who in _bloody hell_ is Greg? Oh! That’s right, it is _you_.” He pointed at Lestrade for a second before glancing back at John. The expression on his face spoke more words than the offer John had made about dinner. Sherlock found he did want to eat; actually he wanted to have the dinner Mrs. Hudson was so willingly cooking. However, John was demanding that he tell the both of them what had happened at the St. Bart’s three years ago. Sherlock had indeed denied him the knowledge that he was in fact alive for the past three years; he did owe him an explanation if nothing else. “Fine, dinner it is.”

 

 

~ * ~

  
John looked to Lestrade, who looked back in return and muttered sarcastically, "Thank God he hasn't changed." He cast Sherlock a wry glance before he nodded to an officer who had come up the stairs to inquire on further moves.  
  
Motioning them forward, John picked up the rifle from the corner where he'd propped it and handed it to Lestrade, "weapon of choice." He said bitterly, for it might have still taken the life of Sherlock Holmes in this very room if he hadn't been here.  
  
Lestrade took the rifle and examined it before handing it off to an officer and falling into step behind John as he made for the door. "Faster we are out of this place and enjoying Mrs. Hudson's cooking, the better." John grunted, pausing at the top of the stairs for Sherlock. "Let’s go out the _front_ door this time, eh Sherlock?" He motioned ahead, Lestrade already outside directing his men. Lestrade walked across the street and Mrs. Hudson opened the door for him, handing him the misshapen bullet and directing him upstairs to have a look at the bust and broken window.  
  
John walked beside Sherlock, noticing Anderson unrolling caution tape to put over the door. The man gaped at them, his expression quickly curdling into distaste when he registered Sherlock. John steered Sherlock back towards 221B, hoping to avoid a confrontation with the idiot. "Are you alright?" He asked as a distraction, tilting his head forward some to get a quick glance at Sherlock's throat from beneath his purple scarf. "He had you pretty fussed up there...against the wall." He placed his hands in his coat pockets. "I expect it's nothing a good meal and a long sleep couldn't fix." He remembered Sherlock's comment about lacking proper bedding for the better part of three years. No doubt it would be good for him to get a long rest. "Right...your week long R &R starts now." He smirked, "and no, I won't play cluedo with you. You'll just have to read a book or something." Pressing the door to their old flat open, John breathed in the aroma of warm food and smiled; despite himself...this place did still feel like home.

 

 

~ * ~

 

That was the last assassin that Sherlock was aware of having a bid for his life. Oddly enough, he let out a sigh of relief. The game was finally over. The past three years was a game of cat and mouse yet it had ended in a matter of minutes when the conflict had risen to its maximum height. Sherlock’s gaze shifted from Lestrade to the rifle that John went to fetch. The only piece that Sherlock could not put together was why Moran became Moriarty’s puppet. He once was a well-respected solider before he retired and went to India, where he became a rather avid poacher. Whatever happened in India changed how Moran moved. Then again, Sherlock didn’t have enough data to deduce what exactly happened to Moran. Nor did he really care for what happened.  
  
Sherlock paused for a second, looking back at the empty room before taking his leave, stopping at the top of the stairs and glancing down at John. ”Of course, but it must be easier now that you’re not relying on your cane again.” He spoke in an ‘as-a-matter-of-fact’ tone before walking down the stairs. Sherlock didn’t even recognize any of the officers bumbling about the scene. They were only a bunch of morons that couldn’t tell the difference between a murder and a suicide. As soon as he stepped out of the building however, he paused and took in his surroundings. His eyes were quick, absorbing every detail as if time slowed down only for him. Just like that, Sherlock took a step forward and continued walking. Everything was finally right, everything was safe.  
  
John started to talk to him; it was clearly an attempt to distract Sherlock from the moronic Anderson who was still gaping at the two of them like they were ghosts. A smile of pleasure crossed his face for Sherlock still hated Anderson slightly more than he hated most idiotic fools. Maybe it was because he had a habit of running into him more than most. Either way, Sherlock’s gaze shifted to Anderson rather quickly and he snapped, ”Stop staring with your mouth open. The girl you’re having an affair with might actually realize you’re a bleeding idiot...” In the corner of his eye, he could see another female officer coming up behind Anderson. Immediately, he began talking to John if he had not seen the annoying fool at all. “I am fine. He didn’t punch me in the face, after all.” He spoke quickly, noticing John’s scrutiny over his neck. Sherlock pulled his scarf up higher to cover it for the expression on John’s face was practically screaming that he was growing worried again.  
  
“Oh god, John, I am not staying in that flat for a week doing absolutely nothing. It’s a dislocated jaw, not a bullet to the head. I have all the pain killers I need, a day’s rest is enough.” He said, walking up to the door of 221B. The last thing he wanted was to be bored. Then again, he did buy himself a new stash of cigarettes and a fresh round of narcotics. That would keep him entertained for a bit. Sherlock could also start writing his next monograph on something new but writing on his old blog would draw too much attention to his newly roused dealings. “If I stay in the flat for a week, I will get so bored that it will eventually result in me going on your laptop and reading your hardly entertaining emails from Harry about her _exciting_ adventures with her lesbian partners.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, adding a hint of sarcasm to his tone as he shoved past some of the officers and into their old flat.

Mrs. Hudson stood in her kitchen still talking to Lestrade about where she had found the bullet. She was still rather shaken up over the sound of the shot being fired upstairs; she had doubtless been in the room when it had happened. Sherlock walked past the pair of them and took a seat at her table that was already set with a meal. He sat in the furthest seat from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson when they joined him at the table. “You’re joining us, Inspector?” Mrs. Hudson asked and he nodded and apologized for any trouble it might cause as she went to grab another set of silverware and a plate.

 

 

~ * ~

 

John had noted earlier that he had no need for the cane when he was on a chase with Sherlock. Of course, he knew where it was this time. It was sitting up in the living room of the Baker street flat, propped up against his old chair with the London flag pillow in it. He had given Sherlock a rueful smile as he passed by him down the neighboring flat’s stairwell.  
  
Lovely, even distracting Sherlock with conversation didn't keep him from calling back to Anderson just to get a jibe in. John didn't like Anderson either, but he didn't feel the need to shout abuse at him like a chip 'n pin machine when he was annoyed with him. Only if the sod was accusing Sherlock of something. Heaving a heavy sigh John grumbled, "Well you are going to milk that one for all its worth, aren't you." However he wasn’t going to apologize for hitting Sherlock, even if he hadn't meant to dislocate the detective's jaw. It had been an accident...though the aggression behind it hadn't been, and in his eyes it was still well deserved.  
  
"I only suggested a week because you so brilliantly admitted that you haven't been getting any kind of quality sleep these past three years...’barely with a bed’ or something to that degree, you said?" He shrugged out of his coat, closing the door to the flat to keep the chill out as he hung his jacket up on the old hook by the door. Who would Sherlock be if he wasn't insufferable though and John leveled a hard stare and a straight finger at him, "Now you leave Harry out of this." He said firmly, "Besides, I changed the password on my laptop ages ago." John said this with a smug smile that stretched his features pleasantly, his blue eyes sleepy.  
  
John hoped that Sherlock's telling of how he faked his death wouldn't put him off his dinner. Even after three years, he was capable of reliving the memories of how he had seen it. He sat down hard at Mrs. Hudson’s tiny kitchen table, shaking off the images of Sherlock's body plummeting over five stories off the roof of Bart's. That one only lead to the blood...smeared across the pavement, seeping into the soles of his shoes. John got up to busy himself, helping Mrs. Hudson bring drinks to the table, smiling at her attempts to get him to sit, waving a pot holder at him and hitting his arm with it.  
  
Lestrade took a load off at the kitchen table, stretching his legs out with an arm along the back of his chair and the other braced on the edge of the table. "So Sherlock, how exactly _did_ you cheat death?"  
  
John held up a serving spoon before he placed it in a dish, "Hold up, is this appropriate dinner talk or are stomachs going to turn?" He glanced at Mrs. Hudson, "Mrs. Hudson went to the trouble of making this meal and the least we can do is manage to digest it." He grunted as he sat again, pulling out the chair beside himself for Mrs. Hudson. The flat was silent, no more tromping shoes of officers examining the room upstairs. So all ears were bent on what Sherlock had to say.

 

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock didn’t plan on letting go of the advantage he held over John from the incident from earlier. He knew very well, he deserved the punch after using his friend in such a way. However, it was the only real leverage he had over John at the moment. Guilt seemed to do wonders on his friend. “Not any time soon.” He spoke, smiling mischievously back at John while he picked up a glass of water and sipped it slowly. He had to dilute the strong chemicals that were rushing through his body still. Sherlock took another sip before obviously deciding ‘sod it’ and quickly downing the glass. Letting out a large sigh of relief, he leaned back and regarded old friends. The way John had reacted to the laptop comment had almost made him laugh. That confident smile on the doctor’s face was something he could not help but stare at for a moment. “Why do you need a password? Have you been looking up porn? Or do you have something else to hide? Maybe you have naked pictures of your ex-girlfriends. Hopefully not the teacher though, she wasn’t very attractive or interesting.” Now he would have to unlock John’s laptop just to find out what was on there that was so important.  
  
Mrs. Hudson began putting out different dishes of food on the table that had been keeping warm in the oven. There was a roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, carrots, and biscuits. Sherlock grabbed a biscuit and broke off a small piece before chewing on it slowly. Talking was one thing but chewing was rather difficult with his tender jaw, which was good because it would serve as his excuse for not eating much since this conversation wasn’t going to be all that wonderful. His eyes were drawn back to Lestrade as he seemed to have the most courage to ask him the question that everyone wanted to know. Sherlock’s right brow rose as John spoke in protest to hearing the story.  
  
“John, I am surprised. You punched me in the face to try to get me to tell you this story. Now that we have food and two spectators, you suddenly have lost interest? Are you getting cold feet? Well, too bad, I have decided to tell you know. Whether you all become sick or not.” Sherlock cleared his throat; Mrs. Hudson was staring at him now with a look of disappointment. His eyes drifted up to her, “Will you just sit down? Your food is lovely. Stop fussing.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson sighed, taking the seat that John had pulled out for her. “This is the only time I am cooking for you boys; I am not your m-.”  
Sherlock cut her off, raising his fork in the air in front of her. “That will do! Now! Where shall I start? Oh, well John you do remember the phone call we had right before I jumped off of Bart’s, correct? I told you exactly what was about to happened if you listened very closely. I said that this was a magic trick. I had made sure you were standing far away from the point where I would land. John, this is no attempt at flattery but you were the key to this whole trick.  
  
If you remember correctly John, you would remember seeing a garbage truck parked directly in front of the spot at which I was bound to fall. You only saw me jump, but you never saw me land. I jumped into the truck and landed safely on the bags. The driver of this truck was an old client of mine; he didn’t mind lending me a hand. In the back of this truck was a present from Mycroft…Do you remember the girl, Lestrade? The child that screamed whenever she saw my face?” Sherlock didn’t even pause for a second to let the inspector answer. ”Of course you don’t! From my deductions about the girl’s behavior, Moriarty could not have been using any picture or video of me. He had to be using a real, physical person. The girl, if your simple brains can remember, was afraid of me without a shred of doubt in her mind. She believed she had seen me before. Therefore, Moriarty must have been using someone that looked exactly like me to frighten her, but how?” Sherlock paused; his jaw was hurting slightly from all the talking but he would press on, there was still much to tell.  
  
Lestrade opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock interrupted him, “No, just shut up. Don’t think, just listen. Your brain does not have the capability to multitask…Where was I? Now, Moriarty had to create a man who looked exactly like me. So, he took one of his hired men and blackmailed them into undergoing extreme cosmetic surgery to change their face and body to look exactly like mine. Now once this was done, Moriarty could use this man to frame me. Yet, he did not want it to be that easy so he used the girl. Once I deduced this, I had Mycroft hunt this man down. Fortunately, he was able to find him and his dead body dumped near the Thames. Now, back to the original problem! Once I was in the garbage truck I tossed the already murdered and bleeding clone onto the side walk. If you remember Watson, a cyclist slammed into you on the street, holding you off for a few seconds. While you were on the ground the body was switched by Mycroft’s plain-clothes operatives. The truck drove away and that was it…If you are wondering why no one else saw what happened it was because the group of people that were surrounding the decoy under Mycroft’s employ. The last step was up to Molly, who simply had to make fraud documents about the dead body posing as me. Mycroft had already switched my DNA with the DNA of the dead man on record, so all she really had to do was turn a blind eye and fudge her report.” Sherlock took a deep breath, relaxing back in the chair. There, it was all out on the table now, let them make of it what they would.

 

 

~ * ~

 

John rolled his eyes towards the ceiling at Sherlock's thoughtless jibes. He'd forgotten how it was to get used to them and brush them off. "Right, no." He  had dismissed curtly, serving himself some food. "Janette? No." He glared at Sherlock, huffing, "Oh, just get on with it!"  
  
Lestrade made a face of surprise and light envy, grinning at John, "You _punched_ him?"  
  
"Oh, don't look at me like that," John glanced up at the Scotland yarder over a forkful of potatoes, "not like we all haven't wanted to." Lestrade's expression shifted into one of agreement.  
  
John patted Mrs. Hudson's wrist and offered her a tight smile as Sherlock bulldozed over the top of her and launched into his motor mouthed monologue. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson, the food looks divine." He murmured to her and started to eat, but as Sherlock got deeper into his descriptions, he found himself putting his fork down. Sherlock was forcing him to think back to that horrible, horrible day and he winced vaguely at the memory of it, the pain having only lessened a little considering the idiot arsehole was actually in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen this very moment, mostly not dead. "I remember." He supplied coolly, leaning back in his seat, giving over his full attention as Sherlock continued on.  
  
John's brow furrowed deeper and deeper as Sherlock continued. The poor, miserable sod Sherlock had used as a dopple-ganger was an idiot to get himself caught up in Moriarty's games, but John couldn't help feeling a little disgusted with the misuse and disrespect of the body. His head throbbed in memory of the cyclist that plowed him to the ground without a single apology, reaching up to slide a hand over the back of his head as if he would still find the goose egg of a lump there on his skull. All the pieces fit...but one thing. "You said I was a 'key' to this trick Sherlock but how; simply to make everyone else believe you were dead too? And even if I had managed to figure all this out," he pursed his lips, shaking his head, "there was no way I could ever have contacted you. So yes, a very nice, all around brilliant give of the slip. Bravo." John sounded a little bitter but hid it by shoving some food into his mouth, chewing mechanically. He had been used, thoroughly and completely deceived, but for what? Why had he been left out of the loop as Sherlock's closest friend and confidant, his doctor and his defender? While the brother Sherlock had mostly despised and used for his money and connections had been privy to the agenda the entire time? Perhaps it was a childish want to be bitter about it, but it stung nevertheless.  
  
Lestrade gestured with the end of his fork, coalescing in the air above his plate, "So where the hell have you been for three years then?" He looked at Mrs. Hudson and said in a lower tone with a smile around the food he was chewing, "Very good chicken, Mrs. Hudson."  
  
John nibbled on a biscuit and nodded at Sherlock's untouched mashed potatoes, "Eat your potatoes Sherlock, they'll be easy on your jaw."  
  
"What's wrong with his jaw?" Lestrade chewed on a steamed carrot, sliding it off his fork with his teeth.  
  
"Oh, I dislocated it..." John muttered with a bland expression.  
  
Lestrade stopped, swallowed, and laughed aloud once, "Ha!" Chuckling, he leaned an elbow against the table edge and propped his chin against it, "Would have liked to get a picture of that." He looked at Sherlock.  
  
John glanced up from his plate, "He tried talking through it..."  
  
Lestrade beamed, " _Brilliant_."

 

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock leaned back in the chair, pausing for a moment to see the others react to the description of how he had made his escape from Moriarty’s men. Mrs. Hudson was still trying to process the whole bit of information. While John, on the other hand, was able to follow it easily. John had been with him for a long time, even before the long period of time they were apart, and he still remembered how to follow Sherlock’s stories. It made a small smile cross his lips before he noticed the bitterness seeping through John’s voice. The question that the doctor asked lingered in his mind for a while but he simply did not want to tell his friend the whole truth. How could he just come out and say: ‘ _John, people read your blog quite often and it has been proven it did increase our popularity. I needed someone I trusted to be there to watch my death. I needed someone I could trust that would tell the police exactly what they saw. I did not want you to figure out that I never died. If you had ever figured it out and told others what you knew you would have been targeted. If I did not fool you with the illusion of my own death then you would have been killed. I could not let that happen. I could not have lost you.’_ The words passed through his head as if he had already spoken them. But of course, he had not.  
  
Instead he said, “Yes and no. You could be trusted to give a reliable account of the story to the police while also being the key witness to the apparent _suicide_.” Sherlock did not want to tell John about the hired killers that were lingering over their heads that day. If he did, the doctor might not look at him in the same way again. The last thing he wanted was John treating him as though he was emotionally weak or somehow compromised by him in some way. The bitterness that John spoke honestly made him want to take another pain killer. However, he was able to divert his attention to Lestrade as the inspector asked a question. “Where? Well, I went to Tibet and around Europe. I wrote about these travels in a blog under the name of Sigerson. The chicken is overcooked.” He commented dryly, though it was a lie.

  
Sherlock continued to gnaw on a part of the biscuit he had been mulling over when Watson mentioned the mashed potatoes on his plate, “No mother, I do not want the potatoes.” He said sarcastically, stabbing the potatoes with his fork. His eyes shot back to John, glancing at the doctor’s own plate. “Why don’t you have some carrots? Vegetables are very good for you. They’ll sharpen your old eyes.”  
  
The consulting detective rolled his icy grey eyes as he listened to the two men talk about the dislocation of his jaw. Sherlock had never really hated Lestrade, he was rather annoyingly stupid and unimaginative, but then again he viewed most people as such. Before the incident with Moriarty, Sherlock had a mutual relationship with the Inspector. Sherlock needed cases and Lestrade understood there were some cases that were too far out of his depth for him to handle. It was a win-win situation and neither of them could argue with that. And yet, by watching the doctor and inspector interact as they did, he couldn’t help but feel annoyed and a bit cross with the inspector. It didn’t matter if John was answering Lestrade’s remarks almost bluntly without too much enthusiasm. There was just something between them and as Lestrade laughed, Sherlock raised his brow in a very open show of his displeasure. “Yes and I would have loved to see your anniversary with your wife.” Perhaps it was the mixture of bitterness and slight jealousy that made him take such a low blow at the inspector, or perhaps the whiskey and painkillers were impairing him further. Sherlock sat in silence for a moment as his comment sunk in before he stood up, putting the mangled biscuit back on his nearly untouched plate with the mutilated potatoes. “You are an excellent cook as always, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the meal.” He said very formally, even though he had just insulted her chicken only moments before. Sherlock moved away from the table, quickly pocketing Mrs. Hudson’s medicine bottle that Sherlock had left on the counter. With that single move made, he began to walk out of the kitchen, holding back a yawn as he went, deeming this event finished and his continued presence not needed.

 

 

~ * ~

 

John hadn't seen a lot of the older Holmes brother in the years after Sherlock's 'death', though he had a few times at the flat when the man had come by to take a few things from upstairs, sentimental reasons he had said. Now he realized Sherlock had probably requested them and Mycroft was far from the sentimental type. The fact that Mycroft hadn't told him, not like he would have any loyalties to do such a thing, but the fact that he just let John go on believing Sherlock was dead, and in fact spoke with him about it---turned John's stomach into knots of anger.  
  
It was a bit surreal that he had been reading of Sherlock's exploits over Sigerson's blog the whole time he had been ‘departed’, without knowing it had been his old friend on the other side of the divide called ‘the internet’. "The chicken is fine, Sherlock. It's lovely Mrs. Hudson." John defended, giving Sherlock one of his 'play nice' looks with raised brows. "And I was just about to have some carrots, actually." He said pointedly and ignoring the jibe at his age, picking up the dish of steamed carrots and knocking some out onto his plate with his spoon, stabbing one and yanking it off his fork with his teeth, chewing defiantly and staring straight at Sherlock, then at his old friend’s potatoes with a tip of his chin.  
  
As Sherlock let fly with the passive aggressive jibes, John's brows crashed together and he hissed, " _Sherlock_!" He stared at his old friend with an open mouth and incredulous eyes. That statement over Lestrade’s personal affairs had gone too far. "You should apologize." He sighed, feeling extremely tired. But of course, Sherlock wouldn't... and Lestrade waved him off, all the humor and laughter from before gone from the room like it had been sucked out the very windows.  
  
When Sherlock excused himself from the table, John followed him with his eyes and forked some more food into his mouth, clearing his plate. When he looked up from his plate again, the bottle of painkillers he had prescribed for Mrs. Hudson's hip problems was missing from where it had been sitting throughout all of dinner. He wiped his mouth and snapped his fingers once to get Sherlock's attention as he swallowed and pushed back from the table, throwing his napkin down beside his plate. "Nope, no...Not going to happen tonight. Give it 'ere." He held his hand out for the medication he knew Sherlock had swiped. "You've taken way too many this evening; you start feeling some real pain you come to me and I'll give you something for it. It shouldn't ache so badly by tomorrow." His brows lifted expectantly, his hand still held up and open over Mrs. Hudson's head. "I really don't want to take you into the A &E to get your stomach pumped tonight. You just finished a case, can't you live with that?"  
  
Once he had the meds back in his hand, he went to Mrs. Hudson's cupboards and extracted any of the other heavier medications, leaving behind her aspirin and sleeping pills. "I'll help you hide these again tomorrow." He told the old woman and she huffed, waving her hand through the air as if she were still used to this treatment.  
  
"And I had just gotten used to having them where they are again." She got up and started to clear the dishes. Lestrade wiped his mouth and stood up, thanking Mrs. Hudson for dinner.  
  
John put all the meds into a paper sack and started for the door, pausing at the bureau to shrug into his jacket again. "Best be off before it gets any later, hum?" He thanked Mrs. Hudson as she helped him shrug his coat on over his shoulders, smoothing them down with a good-natured smile.  
  
"Alright dear, you be safe out there now." she tutted.  
  
Lestrade shrugged his own long coat back on as well and said, "Suppose we won't have to meet over the case this Sunday then?" He asked John, both fellows pausing in the entryway. “Given the fact that the murderer is in custody as we know it.”  
  
"Suppose not, but if you need a pint sometime next week, you know where I am." John smiled and reached for the door, opening it for Lestrade and pausing, turning around to meet the eyes of his old flat mate, "Be seeing you Sherlock..." He murmured, "and get some rest tonight, alright? You'll thank me for it later."  
  
He lowered his voice for Mrs. Hudson as she came up behind him to ease the door shut for him, "Call me if he becomes unmanageable, alright? Day or night..." He turned to go, unsure if he should have left that option open for it only left him open to more hurt at the hands of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

~ * ~

 

The icy blue eyes of the detective turned sharply to stare at John as he approached him for the pain medication. Why was John being so controlling over what he did? The former army doctor had always told Sherlock what not to do but it had been a while since he had actually come up to him demanding he obey in such a stern tone. He kept the medication in his pocket, playing with the plastic bottle for a moment before he opened his mouth to snap, “I am not giving you anything! It is mine; Mrs. Hudson gave it to me. Stop taking my stuff!” He spoke rather childishly he knew, swinging his other hand in the air dramatically and with the utmost petulance. While he was going about that, his other hand worked at the medicine bottle’s cap. When he raised his voice, he popped the bottle open to cover the sound and slipped his finger in to drag out two more pills into his awaiting pocket. Then once again, when he raised his voice, he shut it with a quiet snap.

“Damnit! Would you just stop taking my stuff? I haven’t taken that much already; the room has yet to start spinning. When that happens, then I have taken too much. John, you gave me aspirin. Women who are on their monthly cycle with cramps don’t even take simple aspirin!”  
  
Oddly enough, Mrs. Hudson actually nodded in agreement with that statement. “A nice bottle of wine sure does the trick though.” She said, starting to clean up some of the dishes while watching her two boys have their disagreement.

Sherlock let out a sigh and chucked the bottle at John with a bit of force. “Buy me nicotine patches and don’t hide these in a _secret_ place, they are too easy to find when you hide them.” He muttered, turning his back to John for a moment. That was until he heard John beginning to walk to the front door.  
  
Sherlock was as quick as a whip on the return and he immediately walked over to John’s side, stopping in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs. “Where are you going, back to your apartment? You don’t have a girlfriend to mind there, why are you leaving me here? You’re leaving a recovering drug addict alone? That isn’t very much like a doctor. Who knows what other things I have hidden about I could take.” It was the first time he mentioned it since he had arrived back in London. Since Sherlock had begun his travels, he had started relying on old habits. Without John or the excitement of cases and the rushes he got from those little puzzles, he had started back on his old drug problem, more specifically cocaine. Mycroft had thrown a fit when Sherlock did this back before he had met John. Actually that was one of the reasons why Mycroft had wanted him to have a roommate in the first place; to keep a _leash_ on him. Sherlock didn’t want John to leave now and he wasn’t too fond of telling everyone his personal habits. However, he did know how easy it was to guilt John into things and this was _their_ flat. It was home, but it wouldn’t feel that way unless John was a part of it again.  
  
The consulting detective took a step back after a moment, confused at his own behavior for once. Why was he trying to get John to stay so much? There was just a sudden urge to keep John within a reachable distance and it was similar to the emotion that drove him to make so many mistakes around John earlier that day. Also, it had been these emotions that made him want to see John as soon as he had arrived in London. Was this how friends truly acted with one another? Sherlock paused, re-calculating his thoughts for a moment. Emotions as such were not something Sherlock was very keen on, or even pretended to understand most of the time. Emotions like rage; jealously; nervousness; arrogance; irritation; doubt. They were certainly real yet they were not what was driving his actions. He took another step back, turning away from John without another word because he feared if he opened his mouth now, he would say something he would regret even more. Sherlock walked up the staircase and up into his old flat…alone.

 

 

~ * ~

 

John had not been amused by Sherlock's outburst, nor at Mrs. Hudson’s input either. He cast her a very weary glance as she piped up about wine in Sherlock’s defense. Trust the woman to bring alcohol into the mix. He had lost Sherlock once, and that had been suicide...even if he had been alive the whole time, he had only found out earlier that evening. He refused to let Sherlock endanger himself with simple things such as heavy painkillers and drugs that could kill him. Not such things as that which were preventable.  
  
He turned around on the stoop of the flat when he heard Sherlock's voice from over Mrs. Hudson's head. The old woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Just what does a girlfriend have to do with-" He cut himself off and pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning and shaking his head, dropping the topic there. "I don't make house calls Sherlock, and I don't live here any longer. I haven't for almost three years. I can't just drop the flat I live in now, I have a lease." He turned and walked down the steps, hearing Mrs. Hudson's demure little 'good night John’ as he moved down the walk with his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. It was cooler now than it had been a month ago and winter was creeping into London faster by the very day and John zipped his jacket up all the way to this throat, still absorbing the events and stories of the day, finding it left a sour taste in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And our chapter ends at an impasse, don't kill us over the second cliffy! Chapter three will be both amusing and disturbing as promised; the beginning of a new pathway for our boys.


	3. Of Ghosts and Goulish Flats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drugs, decay, and demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick thank you to all of you who have given up some kudos for us, it's encouraging. We would really like some feedback from you guys, it would mean a lot! We hope you like this next installment of our story! The plot thickens a little as we see just what being without John does to Sherlock and how his absence has effected both men. Also, this is the beginning of our paranormal case part of the story.

Days turned into weeks and John found himself busy with his practice. With the gradual cold spell getting even colder, more and more people were coming in with colds and the flu. His waiting room was overrun with patients with high fevers, and the ones with a high enough fever were sent to a bigger hospital that could keep them overnight. John was tired and felt a little ill himself at times, mostly just a cough and a sniff but he was fighting it. Still, he could use a holiday...  
  
John was just locking up the clinic for the evening when he felt his phone vibrate in his jumper pocket. He pulled it out and blew into his other hand, his breath clouding in the mid-evening chill. "Mrs. Hudson, how're you?" He answered, starting off down the street, deciding he'd wait to take a cab while he talked to his old landlady.  
  
"Not good dear, Sherlock's been worse than ever!" She huffed, "first rattling about upstairs at three in the morning, pacing like an animal." He could practically hear her arms waving about as she spoke animatedly. "Then laying silent for days on that couch John, he's shut himself up in the sitting room, won't even let _me_ in John, he says it'll ruin his experiment. I slip his post under the door for that is all he'll allow. He hasn't eaten since the night after you and the Inspector left after dinner." She was fussing and John heaved a short sigh.  
  
"I'll be over there in a moment." He hailed a cab and quietly forwarded the address to the cabbie.  
  
"Oh and John, the _smells_! It's like a burnt cat on the stove!" She trilled, her voice quavering.  
  
John cringed, "Don't call the police, I'm coming." He ended the call and got out five minutes later in front of 221B, unlocking the front door with his key. Mrs. Hudson met him at the stairs. "I just came down from up there." She murmured a hand to her heart. "Told him you were coming, he didn't say a thing, but I heard him moving about so..." She trailed off.  
  
"Well then, he's not killed himself then." John muttered, hanging up his jacket and passing on up onto the second floor landing. The door to the sitting room was shut and he tried the knob but it was locked. "Sherlock?" He rattled the knob a little, "It's me, open up." John grimaced; for Mrs. Hudson was right...the smell was terrible. "What the hell have you been doing?"

 

~ * ~

 

Hours blurred into days that slid into weeks. Time had become a mere illusion, only being used for time specific things. Sherlock had resorted to a state of madness from the constant boredom. Keeping himself entertained was similar to a child fixed on a plain piece of paper for hours and hours. In other words, it was entirely pointless yet necessary for him. Now that London had been informed that the consulting detective was alive, there was a flood of cases pouring in. They varied from idiotic missing animals to affairs and disappearances. Letters arrived in the mail and emails would be sent online. No matter the way it was sent, Sherlock ignored them all, not even glancing at some. The answers to most of the so called _mysteries_ were plainly obvious.  
  
Therefore, Sherlock had to find other ways to spend his time. The first issue was getting back to sleeping in a bed. After traveling and being on the run for so long, a bed had become uncomfortable. So, even though he was back in London, Sherlock slept on the floor and gradually moved up to sleeping on the couch as days passed. As of now, he had yet to touch his bed. The two pills he managed to slip from Mrs. Hudson’s medicine bottle only lasted him until the next morning. After that, he was back to the drugs he bought off the street. The pain in his jaw had faded rather quickly. At least he believed it did, he usually wasn’t in a state of mind to actually determine that. During late nights the detective would make trips to get more narcotics for his stash. Mrs. Hudson had been trying to get in the flat since day one and he knew she was still reporting to John about his _activities_. However, he didn’t believe her complains would be enough to bring John back to 221B.  
  
Sherlock was refusing to even think about John. He had grown annoyed with his old friend. Ever since John had said he wasn’t going to move back in Sherlock had distanced himself from the doctor. He kept the flat locked at all times, no matter what he was doing. It didn’t matter if he was sleeping, high, drunk, or experimenting on whatever he could think of next. He even started throwing daggers at the wall in an attempt to solve his boredom since he didn’t have John’s Sig any longer.  
  
It was only this week that Sherlock had become transfixed on a particular concept. With this single concept, he transformed the flat into something else entirely. It was only until that particular morning that the process had made complete and utter sense. It only took a few days and staying up all night to discover. That was until he heard John’s voice at the door. It was pitch black inside the flat but the windows were painted black, so it very well could be the middle of the day and he wouldn’t really know it. Sherlock unlocked the door for the doctor before walking lazily towards a chair by the fireplace. He was hardly dressed, only wearing a silk robe and a pair of pajama pants, having no shirt or shoes on. The floor of the room was completely covered in papers; so much so that the floor was not even visible any longer.  The papers were dotted and smeared with drips of paint and blood and on the walls there were daggers and red strings connecting images and old pictures across the entire sitting room. On the table where they used to eat there was now a full chemistry set. Chemicals were leaking on the floor and all over the place and sulfur was the strongest of the scents in the flat. Also, hanging from the ceiling was a human arm decaying away. Sherlock didn’t even make a sound or say hello to John, he merely ventured back into the darkness and sat in his old chair, his icy blue eyes almost giving off a faint glow in the blackness of the sitting room. There were deep dark circles underneath his eyes and his skin had taken on an unhealthy and sallow sheen. The room smelt like decaying flesh, chemicals, alcohol, cigarettes, and burnt hair. 

 

~ * ~  
  
As the door opened, John visibly gagged, reaching up to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve as the swelteringly hot air of the sitting room and kitchen wafted out into the hall to meet him. Mrs. Hudson was at the end of the hall and she gasped and crowed, " _Sherlock Holmes! This is going on your rent, you've ruined my flat!_ " She gasped, covering her mouth and nose as well before she fled down the stairs to escape the sights and smells. John was a little braver but he still held his sleeve up to protect himself a little from the overwhelming scents, taking a few crinkling and crunching steps inside the old sitting room. "Jesus, bloody Christ Sherlock...you've gone entirely mad." He murmured, looking around at it all, peering through the gloom. He could see the figure, nearly bat-like, sitting in the corner by the fireplace, which wasn't lit. "Is this your retaliation for me not moving back in? Do you not understand," he grunted as he stepped over something, unable to see exactly what it was and figuring he didn't want to know really, "the mechanics of a lease? It costs money to break one...can't just up and leave." He huffed as he reached the farthest window. He felt around for curtains, but there were none and he realized that the very window had been painted over with several coats of dark paint. The paint was still sticky, obviously done a few days ago and still drying, so it wasn't too hard to pry it open where the sill stuck to the bottom of the window with the paint. A little crack of light appeared and John yanked harder, paint shavings scattering onto the ground. "Christ." He hissed again, sucking in a lungful of the blessed fresh air outside. The cross breeze from the hall drew the smells outside through the window and as long as he stayed in the path between the door and window, the stench wasn't so overwhelming any longer.  
  
"Sherlock, this is enough." He huffed, "You have _got_ to see how _insane_ this is. Body parts hanging from the ceiling is a bio-hazard and a health code violation, it could make you ill! Have you been shitting on the ground as well? You're living like an animal." John was exasperated and it showed in his wide blue eyes and pale face. He stalked forward towards Sherlock's chair and stooped to get a better look at his old friend. He was paler than usual, eyes sunken, bruises beneath the eyes, and a tell-tale sign of little sleep. He smelled like a rat...a rat that took a swim in some alcohol. "Jesus Sherlock, you reek..." He murmured, "Is this some way of telling me you're incapable of taking care of yourself?" He had known Sherlock was one to forget to eat or sleep when he was on a case, and between cases his mind was overwrought with a need to get another case, so John had been the reminder back then too. But Sherlock had survived three years on his own; certainly he hadn't gone about it in this manner.  
  
John reached for Sherlock's wrist forcefully and pushed up the sleeve of his dressing gown, revealing the several scattered pock-marks from needles. "Sherlock..." His voice was drenched in disappointment and pain. "Sherlock, you didn't..." He heaved out a long sigh and let go of his friend, "And after you were doing so well...you quit it all, cold turkey. Surely you've got a load of cases to choose from, I hear the Prime Minister himself is asking after you. Why are you shut up in here and not reaping the benefits of a grand return?" John motioned to the open door to the rest of the flat. It hurt him to see Sherlock in this state...this ridiculous and utter unhealthy state caught between drugs, alcohol, little to no sleep, and most-likely no food. He was as thin as a skeleton and John reached out and brushed a wad of blankets he had assumed Sherlock had been using as his bedding; out of his old chair. At least he hoped they had only been used to sleep in...  
  
Sitting down, John drew his chair close to Sherlock’s until their very knees were nearly touching and John leaned forward, folding his hands together and bracing his elbows against his knees. "Sherlock...let me help you." Blue denim eyes burned with the need to help someone who was only hurting themselves. He was a doctor after all, it was his instinct. "Why don't...you take a nice hot shower, something to clear your head, alright? I'll fix you a cuppa?" His voice was laced with hope. It seemed they would be starting from the ground up once more with Sherlock’s addictions. "We could go for a walk...you could tell me what you've been...working on." John glanced around. If this could be called work at all, it had no rhyme or reason to it, it was positively chaotic in this flat. "We could set you up in my old room upstairs while we clean all this up." He thought he heard a rustling and a mouse squeaking from the kitchen and he closed his eyes on another sigh, his jaw clenching. Mrs. Hudson was going to have a royal heart attack...an entire team of cleaning people and bio-hazard handlers would have to be brought in to clean all this up.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock didn’t exactly react to the sound of Mrs. Hudson yelling down the hall. He simply leaned back in the chair. He was exhausted, yet he continued to do what he liked. The deathly looking Sherlock tilted his head to the side as he watched John try to navigate around the room like a blind man. He had grown so used to the dark that his eyes were almost completely dilated, allowing him to see by as little light as possible. “No mother, I would have done this whether you were here or not.” He said sarcastically in a raspy voice, leaning his head all the way back as John was wondering over to the windows. It would take a good minute or two before John would be able to pry one open. Even when John managed to open the window, he still flinched, cowering back slightly in the chair. ”Damn it…Just shut it, will you?” He hissed in pain. The experiment was over; he no longer cared if the room was disturbed. He wouldn’t have let John in if he hadn’t finished the process yet. It was rather refreshing to have someone else in the room besides himself. Over the past few days things had started to look odd to him in this room. This had nothing to do with the arm or the smell, but the darkness and the topic at hand had begun to play tricks on his mind. Staying in the dark can create fears that never existed before. Yet, Sherlock found himself above those certain tricks but staying in this room for as long as he had begun to take a certain toll on him. He shifted slightly; leaning against his right hand and reaching up to rub his forehead. A massive headache hit him a few seconds after the light from the window did.  
  
Sherlock kept his eyes down, avoiding looking directly at the open window. “I have not been living like an animal. I have been living like a photographer, there is a small difference. What are you doing here, checking up on your friend or your _patient?_ ” He said, not daring to even look up, squinting in the sudden dying light of the evening. His cool blue eyes flinched every moment the light hit them with more concentration. _I don’t smell bad,_ he thought to himself. Then again, the scent of the sulfur and the decomposing arm were distracting his sense of smell. “I can take care of myself just fine without you. I am still alive after all. I might not have you telling me to eat every five hours but I can take care of my own body.” In a sense, he knew that was a complete lie. He knew that in times like this, John has proven himself useful time and time again for Sherlock tended to get lost in his projects at hand and forget his bodily needs.  
  
He closed his eyes for a moment before John reached out and grabbed his right arm forcefully, pulling it right out from under Sherlock’s head. He was tried, now that the experiment was done; he was starting to feel his body yelling at him in more ways than one. His brow rose when John seemed upset when he saw the puncture marks on his inner forearm. Sherlock had told him specifically that he had returned to his old habits, had he not? John reverted to using his cane and Sherlock went back on drugs, those were their literal and proverbial crutches. Yet there was something in John’s voice that upset him and he identified it as disappointment. There was something about it that he didn’t like. Why it mattered to Sherlock was something he had been trying not to think about. “I told you I started the habit again. It’s something interesting to do…All those cases that were sent in were requests by people who cannot observe what is around them. Besides, I have no time for their mundane little mysteries; I have already accepted a case.”  
Sherlock stayed still while John moved closer to him, trying to act as comforting as he could. Not long ago he was arguing with him and ended up getting punched in the face and he knew for a fact he didn’t want a repeat of that action. Sherlock leaned back once again, pulling the sleeve of his robe back down over his mutilated arm, now John wouldn’t have to stare at it anymore. He shook his head when John offered to make him some hot coffee and go on a walk, “No, I am leaving soon to investigate this case…Oh yes, come with me.” Sherlock didn’t pose it as a question, more like a command. He was a tad bit more relaxed than usual. However, it was due to the effect of a massive hangover. He avoided speaking too loudly so that an earthquake full of pain would not be set off in his head. The pale male stood up, the wrinkly robe caressing his bare chest and yawned openly, wondering back into the bedroom. He knocked the door open with the side of his foot and walked into what once was his bedroom and was now a dark room made for developing photographs. Red lights were attached to the ceiling by bare cords and they made it the most well lit room in the flat. Sherlock grabbed a picture and came back out into the sitting room, handing the developed photograph to John with an understated flourish.  
  
”An elderly woman in Ireland sent me a letter and that photograph. She is the owner of a historic castle that was home to many of her past ancestors. Apparently the folklore and legends say that the place is haunted. The woman is planning to sell the castle to a man who is going to use it as a tourist attraction. The castle has had restoration work done to it every year due to how much of its structure is falling apart. However, the man who wants to buy it and the surrounding property is afraid of the _supernatural_ activities taking place on the grounds. He is refusing to buy it unless the rumors and legends are proved to be unfounded. So, the woman, known as Mrs. Brennan, has sent for me…The photograph you are holding is what a photographer took of the castle while taking pictures for the buyer. It was taken on a non-digital camera and the film was developed by the submersion method. The photographer developed this photo and found an odd, ethereal man in the shot when he distinctly remembered there being no one in his line of sight…I have been attempting to get the same effect on film for the last few days but it is impossible to be faked.” He ended his monologue and took a deep breath, folding his arms across his chest and watching John as he looked the strange photograph over.

 

~ * ~

 

John's expression softened a little and he leaned back in his own old chair, settling his hands on the armrests. "You're not a patient Sherlock, but I could make you one." He warned, "I'm here as a friend." He said somberly, "and as your _doctor_." He knew how Sherlock's slumps worked. How he would get himself worked up over a case, get his mind used to the high functioning needed to solve such a case, feed off the excitement and the thrill. Then when the case was finished and the abruptness of normal life returned like a cloud, he would scramble for anything and everything that would relieve his mind that was spinning out of control. Of course, for those reasons, John was also familiar with the dreaded aftermath of those things he used to calm himself and entertain the faculties of a genius without a problem. John new he had to be gentle, had to be logical, and had to be firm and sound in everything he said, otherwise Sherlock would turn it about on him.  
  
"The state in which you are now isn't very good evidence of a person who can take care of themselves." He supplied, using one of Sherlock's own words against him; 'evidence.' He couldn't possibly ignore that. John hadn't taken the first comment of Sherlock being in the habit of using cocaine seriously when he had heard it the first time, having figured it was just a phrase Sherlock was using the goad and pain him. But now he saw the evidence for himself, the puncture wounds mottling the arm of his friend, the dazed and easily distracted frame of mind. It was almost definitely the last leg of the jitters one had coming down from a high he was experiencing. John had seen a little of it in the army for unfortunately, not every military man was as straight and true as they should have been.  
  
John glanced around the gloom of the room, knowing that when it was cleaned it would be searched, but Sherlock was getting more and cleverer with his hiding spots for his stashes. Eventually though, John would get him to agree to quitting, either for his own health or for John's peace of mind. He would give the man his nicotine patches, but smokes and other forms of drugs would be rationed and eventually cut out.  
  
"You have a case...then why on Earth are you in this state?" He straightened and looked about them again, noticing even more horrible little monster messes about the room he hadn't allowed himself to examine before. There was an open yogurt container putrefying into a black state under a Tupperware container, probably Sherlock's attempt at growing his own penicillin. "Of course I'll come with you; I believe you might just collapse left to your own methods and mind." John leaned back and propped his chin in one hand, elbow braced against the armrest of his seat. "But you aren't possibly going out looking like you are, are you?" His brows furrowed. He wouldn't put it much past Sherlock; after all...he had ridden the tubes covered in pig's blood with a man-sized harpoon in his possession.  
  
Watching Sherlock rise, John observed his state of balance and glanced over his chest exposed from his dressing gown sliding open slightly. John pursed his lips, a thin line of worry descending vertically down between his brows, pinching them together. Sherlock had been thin before, lean but capable of muscle that housed his feats of agility. But Sherlock was so very thin now, his ribcage showed in ripples down his sides before his waist curved sharply inward over the jutting bones of his hips, his pajama bottoms hanging loosely off those hips, the drawstring tight no doubt just to keep them in place. John looked away, saddened by the sight. He had once fancied the thought that Sherlock was an attractive man, men could make that observation in passing couldn't they? But in this state, Sherlock's hair was unkempt and had lost all previous luster; dirtied and stuck with bits of paper, probably from sleeping on the floor. His normally sharp eyes were still intensely grey and pale as they had always been, but the white expanse of his eyes were bloodshot and sunken into purple shadows from lack of sleep and the abuse of drugs. His already sharp cheekbones were practically knives now, jutting out from his face, supporting a severe jawline set on what used to be an elegant stretch of neck...now sallow and alien looking. The broad expanse of shoulder was now sloped, boney under the loose fabric of the dressing gown. He didn't doubt that every notch in Sherlock's spine was visible if he were not wearing that robe, and no doubt...he would feel them under his fingers if he were to touch his friend.  
  
John stayed sitting in his chair as Sherlock walked from the room, stirring the stale air with his movements and making John wrinkle his nose in revulsion to the scents that coalesced around him. The flat needed a good cleaning...and so did Sherlock.  
  
"What's this?" He reached up for the photograph as it was handed to him and an explanation of the facts was given. John had never been much of a believer in the supernatural occurrences of the underworld. There was too much mysticism involved and John was way too much of a realist to put much stock in ghost stories. He had also thought Sherlock was a man of much the same ways as he in that regard, but the photograph and his friend's somewhat animated account showed him otherwise. "Supernatural Sherlock...sounds like a six to me; it's got to be some sort of a set up. People who don't want the castle to be bought out maybe..." He turned so that he might get more light on the photograph to get a better view of it. It was daytime, maybe a few hours before mid-day and the light was unusually strong from the west side of the structure in the picture. There was a strong flare of sun caught in the picture that left the run-down castle in shadow, silhouetted against a backdrop of the sea. But the entrance to the castle was visible on all accounts, the photographer standing in a position that caught the glancing rays of sun across the front of the structure. The old, tumble down building had a solid front at least, heavy, ten or eleven foot tall doors bared across with wood and warning tape left by construction crews. But in the gloom of the barred entrance, there could be seen a clear outline of a figure, half turned, as if looking over its shoulder at the camera. Two peculiar things stuck out to John then, one that the figure was half _inside_ the castle already, though the doors were shut and yet half his body was on the other side of them. The other thing was...that the figure was no normal height for a man. His head stopped some two and a half feet from the top of the doors. John estimated that the height of the figure stood at about nine and a half to ten feet tall. He frowned. "Too tall..." He murmured. The area around the figure's body was slightly blurred however, as if he was not fully solid, the effect sort of like heat waves coming off a hot stretch of pavement.  
  
"Curious." He muttered, looking up and handing the photograph back to Sherlock. "Can't make out a face..." He stood, his feet scuffing at some papers as he did so. "You said it was in Ireland?" Well, he had been meaning to take some holiday...and with his friend in the state he was, a case would do him some good to get him away from the flat for a while. John would have to phone the clinic and find someone to fill in for him. "Are we taking the train and ferry then?" He heaved a long sigh, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "I'll have to drop by the flat to pack up a few things..." He meandered towards the open doorway as he sent off a text.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock raised his arms in the air dramatically.”Pshhhhhhh!! Evidence.” He laughed almost drunkenly. With that he kicked a jar of moldy jam out of the way and tossed one of the blankets over the fireplace which now held the different parts and pieces of skeletons. They were all completely decomposed; he had managed to get them from Molly and they had once been used for educational purposes. Sherlock drew back another yawn, rubbing his eyes once again. Everything was in complete disorder and his vision was partially blurred though he wasn’t drunk or high at the moment. Honestly, Sherlock hadn’t picked up a bottle since yesterday afternoon. Once Sherlock had begun putting pieces of a case together, he no longer needed any chemical support. It was its own adrenaline. Sherlock sighed, brushing his dirty fingers through his matted hair only to have them stick. He had to take a shower.

When Watson wasn’t looking, the younger man lifted his arm up and tried to catch his own scent. It took a moment but he jerked his head back up and flinched. To John it may just appear he was still fighting with the hangover from liquor and drugs, but Christ perhaps the doctor was right. Sherlock lifted his head up higher to avoid any other encounters with his own body odor. So, he needed to take a shower. The only problem was the bathroom was filled up with some of his equipment. In the sink there was also a Koi fish which he had bought with Mycroft’s credit card to piss him off. He had received a satisfyingly angry voicemail from his brother late that very day. _Why the hell did you buy a thousand dollar fish?! It better be made out of gold!_ Mycroft wasn’t concerned for his money, just more interested in what exactly Sherlock was doing. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft had been trying to talk to John once again. He no doubt knew what his little brother had been doing with himself. If he hadn’t contacted John then there would be people watching the flat at this very moment instead, waiting to see some signs of life from 221B.  
  
“I am experimenting. What do you mean by ‘this state’? I am perfectly fine, healthy and completely _normal_.” He said sarcastically. His eyes were now completely adjusted to the light in the room and he didn’t find the need to squint so overpowering. Sherlock glanced around the room and shrugged. He hadn’t seen it this lit in a few weeks for the only light source that he had used had been a candle or his phone depending on which was closer at hand.  
  
While John examined the photo, Sherlock began pacing the room patiently. He wanted to hear the doctor’s opinion of the case and as John spoke, Sherlock raised his hand to forestall any other mindless observations. “That’s what I thought at first. Yet this old woman was too persistent, she even bought me a ticket to travel down there last week. So I did because she was getting irritating with her constant phone calls and mail. She only ever spoke mile a minute, making it utterly impossible to actually listen to her without wanting to throw myself out of a window. I went to the castle John, in Ireland.” Sherlock stopped, putting his hands on the back of his chair, his dirty nails laced with chemicals and blood clutching at the leather. He leaned in closer to John, “You know what I found? Absolutely nothing! Not one person anywhere that gave a damn about the old woman selling the land. There was no one who wanted to buy the land or use it. She only had one living family member, and that is her daughter. Ironically, her daughter is in the process of moving to France with her new husband. I managed to crash their wedding, lovely cake…John, there is no one else who wants to _buy the land_. Everyone fears the castle with their life. Saying things like, ‘The castle?! Oh no! Please don’t go there! Stay away from it! Just let Mrs. Brennan deal with it!’ They didn’t care what the woman was doing with it. Not anyone in the pub or even anyone in the local inn. It doesn’t make any sense! There is no one who wants to use the castle or would benefit if it was not sold.” Sherlock had returned to his pacing while he spoke, throwing his arms in the air and making these wildly frustrated and hateful expressions. He was right, none of it made any sense. “I took various pictures while I was down there. I couldn’t figure out how the original was created. So I came back here to try my luck with a different kind of experiment. Yet it was impossible.”  
  
He took a deep breath, still pacing back and forth. He could almost hear Mrs. Hudson yelling up the stairs. “Stop it! Make it stop! John! Please, it’s giving me a headache.” She called up to him desperately as Sherlock continued to pace. Sherlock turned to John as he was making his way to the door and said, “Pack lightly; meet me at the train station in two hours.” With that, he turned around and stomped through the piles of trash and garbage to the bathroom door. It was as Sherlock had thought, two tickets would be needed for transportation; Mrs. Brennan had so happily bought them for them. Sherlock turned the knob of the bathroom door a few times, finding it completely unmovable. He stared at the door for a moment before letting out a huge sigh and snapping, “Oh, sod it!” Sherlock kicked the door open with his bare, dirty foot. There was a terribly loud crash and the door merely came off of its hinges and fell onto the floor with a band and a thud.

 

~ * ~

 

John turned around at the door, "Mycroft says you bought a fish..." He frowned, "A fish, Sherlock... _really_ , you can barely take care of yourself!" He pocketed his phone and sighed, "You already went to Ireland...? Well that must've been ages ago, looks as if you haven't left the flat in over a week." John heaved a long, suffering sigh and listened to Sherlock's rants before turning to go, "Alright, two hours, look decent." He muttered and paused when Sherlock couldn't get the bathroom door in the hallway open. He frowned, was about to help, but Sherlock simply kicked it in. John pinched the bridge of his nose and pursed his lips into a thin line. This place would take a week's worth of fixing... He glanced up and saw the Koi fishes' mouth gaping open in the sink, wanting food, having little room to swim about. "Oh for the love of God, you could've at least put him in the tub." He grunted as he made for the stairs.  
  
Downstairs, John pulled Mrs. Hudson aside from the stairs and looked at her seriously, "Alright, under no circumstances are you to go up there and try to clean up, I don't want you to get Botulism or some hideous disease he's got brewing up there. Call that hotel maid service, tell them it's really bad...call Lestrade, get his bio-hazard people on it alright? Here," John reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet, which Mrs. Hudson waved her hand at, shaking her head and murmuring to him 'no, no.' "Yes, here, go to your sister's for the rest of the week, I'll leave Lestrade a key so he can let in the crew. I don't want you anywhere near whatever they bring down from up there." He pointed up to the second floor. "Oh and...Tell Lestrade there's a fish...he'll need to do something about that." He muttered, scratching the back of his head as he handed Mrs. Hudson some cash from his wallet.  
  
After leaving his key slipped into the hiding spot Sherlock and he had made for emergencies in the side panel of the doorjamb, John left Lestrade a text as he hailed a cab back to his flat.

  
  
 _To: Lestrade_  
From: John  
Message: We have a problem...  
I left you a key at the flat, I need you to bring some of your bio-hazard men in to clean some stuff up. Sherlock's made a royal disaster of the place this week. Also, let in the maids. I'll owe you a pint. 

  
He was just getting out at his apartment when he felt his phone go off in his pocket: 

  
_To: John_  
From: Lestrade  
Message: Annoying...  
You'll owe me more than a pint John, unless we're calling this a drug's bust.

  
  
John shook his head with a half-smile but knew Lestrade would do it, for Sherlock's well-being at least, maybe. He unlocked his dingy flat and went inside, packing up some warm clothes and his gun. Never know when you might need it when running about with Sherlock, poking your nose into other people's business. He knew it was even colder in Ireland, so John packed his warmest jumpers and jeans. He had one bag and he pulled it over his shoulder as he looked about for anything he'd missed. On a better thought, he went into his bathroom and retrieved the first aid kit he kept up to date. No telling when you might need it.  
  
Locking up his flat, he considered how much it would be to break the lease here, probably more than a few weeks’ pay on his account. But if Sherlock kept this wave of behavior up, John knew it would either kill Mrs. Hudson, or kill Sherlock...so something had to be done. But that could be considered after this case.  
  
Catching a cab to the station to meet up with Sherlock, he found the man pacing but clean thankfully. "Sherlock, have you got the tickets?" He adjusted the strap of his rucksack over his shoulder and glanced up at the train times.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock ignored John’s comment on the fish. So he was correct, Mycroft was already attaching strings to John. His eyes turned to look at the black and white Koi that was swimming back and forth quickly in the sink. “Are you hungry, Watson?” He asked the fish before grabbing a bottle that was on the counter. Yes, he had named the fish Watson. Why? Well things had gotten lonely in this empty flat and there were times when he almost expected John to burst through the door and yell at him. So he named the fish after him to keep him company. After all, most of the times he was high out of his mind so he would just talk to the fish as if it were John. He dropped a few flakes into the sink and Watson immediately swallowed the pieces whole. Sherlock managed to hear the last part of John’s words before he left. Just as always, he could not let the doctor have the last word. So, Sherlock called back at him childishly, “You be decent!”  
  
Sherlock glanced back at Watson the fish who was now seemingly staring up at him from his tiny environment. He let out a sigh and dropped some more flakes in the water before putting down the bottle. “You really need a tank.” He mumbled and silently waited until John had left the building before he cleared the equipment out of the tub and took off his robe and his pants. He turned on the hot water in the shower and climbed in. It was the first time he had taken a shower in a while and the hot water felt amazing. The grime that was covering his body washed away down the drain in lazy swirls. It was mainly a mixture of chemicals, blood, alcohol, and paint. His matted hair slowly untangled in the hot water and Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the water run over him for a good thirty minutes. 

After drying himself off, he felt like a completely different person. He was still pale as hell and his features were all sunken in but he was refreshed and presentable at least. There was no longer the feeling of the drugs he took the day before in his system and his head was now clear and his sight had returned back to normal. Sherlock walked back into his bedroom and began to dress, slipping on a black pair of pants and some shoes. The shirtless detective threw some stuff around in his overwrought bedroom before he found a deep maroon button down shirt and donned it.  
  
Once he was dressed, he proceeded to go through his stuff until he found a brown paper bag that had been buried under clutter. John had likely told Lestrade about the flat and it would not be too long before a group of Lestrade’s men busted into the flat for any hidden drugs and to get rid of the decaying arm. But Sherlock had no intention of losing his stash and it wasn’t like he couldn’t just buy more, but most of all he did not want to give them the pleasure of finding it. So Sherlock took the hidden bag of contraband and separated it into two small black Moroccan boxes that looked like jewelry cases. He grabbed a black bag and shoved a few different outfits into it, keeping with warm fabrics and layers and he even managed to fit in a light blanket. Besides clothing he took a lock pic, a camera, some rope, and a flashlight. Sherlock would have to pick up some nicotine patches before he left.  
  
Once he was packed, he grabbed his coat and slipped it over his shoulders. His clothing was a little loose on his body and Sherlock hadn’t realized how much his body had changed over these last few weeks until now. He glanced in a mirror before wrapping his dark blue scarf around his neck tightly and just like that, Sherlock turned away and headed down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson still hadn’t gone back into her flat and was hovering about the bottom of the stairs, looking at him with such an irritated expression as he came down. ”Hello, Mrs. Hudson! You are looking as lovely as ever. You are still going after the lawyer it seems.” He said, smelling a mixture of her perfume and that horrible horse urine cologne the man in question wore.  
  
“Sherlock! You look awful! You’re going to have to pay for what you did to my flat! You destroyed it! Flattery isn’t going to help you now. You’re lucky I don’t just throw you out of here.” Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head.

Sherlock smiled at her and despite her protest, kissed her on the cheek. ”It will be okay, Mycroft will pay for everything. Oh yes! There is a fish in my sink. I believe you have a tank you don’t use anymore in storage. Take it out and take care of the fish for me, take it with you to your sister’s will you?”  
  
Mrs. Hudson stared at him in disbelief. “You have a fish up there? I don’t allow pets Sherlock Holmes!” She walked after him as he went to the front door. He merely turned to her and gave her a big hug, lifting her right up off her feet before he set her back down and left the flat. He walked down the street a small ways before he was able to get a cab and Sherlock threw his bag into the first one he got and told the driver to go to the nearest pharmacy. Once he arrived, he went into their bathroom and, seeing no one was there, he climbed onto one of the sinks and pushed back one of the ceiling tiles. Carefully, he took out one of the black Moroccan boxes and slipped it into the empty space in the ceiling. Quietly, he pulled the tile back into place before leaving. That would take care of Lestrade’s annoying search and the other black box he would be keeping in his bag. Sherlock walked back into the store and bought himself a few boxes of nicotine patches before hailing another cab and heading toward the train station.  
  
Sherlock checked the time; he had arrived a few minutes early it would seem. So, he stood outside of the train station pacing back and forth. It was a while before he saw John walking towards him. “You are late! I have the tickets, the train leaves in fifteen minutes.” Sherlock pulled out two tickets from his pocket before turning quickly and heading into the station. “John, I am disappointed, you almost made us miss our train.” He sounded like a mother scolding their child. Sherlock gave the tickets to a man at a booth and the man nodded and stamped the tickets before giving them back to Sherlock and pointing them in the direction of the train. He glanced back at John, “Did you kiss your love interests goodbye? Is that why it took you so long to get here?” Sherlock said sarcastically, climbing onto the train. “Is Lestrade coming too? Or is your buddy too busy with his wife? Oh yes, tell him if he touches my fish or my files I will destroy him. Not physically of course, that would be too boring.”  
  
Sherlock began whistling until they reached their first class seating upon boarding the train. The icy blue eyed detective threw his bag into the overhead compartments and took a seat in the deep red cushioned window seat. As soon as he sat down, a woman wearing a travel uniform came up to them. “Welcome aboard, are there any drinks I can get for you two? You make a lovely couple by the way. Are you two traveling on a honeymoon?” She was extremely cheery, blond hair tied back into a tight ponytail. Sherlock yawned with complete disinterest and replied, “Two glasses of whiskey, will do.” 

~ * ~

 

John frowned as he came up to his friend, checking his watch by raising his arm and jimmying his sleeve down. "I'm _two_ minutes late, Sherlock. We have plenty of time." He huffed, following the brunette into the station and up to the ticket master. John was starting to keep count of how many times Sherlock had yawned since he had entered the flat. The count was up to three. Perhaps he should have insisted on Sherlock managing a nap before they left for Ireland.  
  
He paused in his thoughts, glowering up at Sherlock from under his heavy blonde brows and muttering, "No," he enunciated his words as if he was speaking to a child, "my cabbie took a bad route. You know very well I don't have a girlfriend, I don't doubt you've been keeping tabs on me somehow." He grunted as he slung his bag back over his shoulder as they left the ticket booth, walking towards their platform. "And I'm sure Lestrade will leave your files alone, it's not as if you have them organized into any semblance of order to be of any use to anyone but you." John shoved his own bag into the overhead compartment beside Sherlock's and dropped into the aisle seat beside his friend, heaving a long sigh. This was going to be a long trip, especially if Sherlock got bored. It was about four hours by train from London station to Holyhead along the coast where they would catch a ferry from Holyhead to Dublin, which would be another hour across the Irish sea.  
  
The train attendant passed onto their aisle and John looked up, a smile frozen on his face which quickly liquefied and vanished off his face when he heard her words. "Oh, no, we're not..." he pointed in between him and Sherlock, "We're not a couple, we're just-" Sherlock cut him off with an order of two whiskeys and John looked exasperated and annoyed, turning his head away to look out the window on the other side of Sherlock. He would never understand why everyone always thought he and Sherlock were a couple...and why the other male never refuted it. Pursing his lips, he knew without a shadow of doubt; this trip would be unbearably long. Especially if they got any more comments like that one from people.  
  
John stood up before the train could start moving and extracted a small, paperback novel from his pack as well as a small notebook he could write in. He assumed either one of two things would start right away. Either Sherlock would request utter silence from him so he could contemplate the specifics of the case, or Sherlock would accept going over the points of the case for note so they might discuss theories formed by the facts they already had. "So...the case as we know it?" He looked at his friend beside him, opening up the small moleskin pocket journal and writing down the date at the letterhead. "Mrs. Brennan is attempting to sell this castle she has had in the family for quite some time so it may be restored and used as a tourist attraction to liven up the surrounding villages." John wrote shorthand notes in his doctor's scribble. "Did you talk to her about any of the rumors around the castle...or how long she's even been its owner?" He paused and leaned back in his seat, waiting for Sherlock to begin. "What all do we know?" If Sherlock clammed up, John had his book...but until that happened he was hoping to jot some things down so he wouldn't be completely in the dark when they got there. Also, it would help him in the future if he put this one into the blog.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock leaned back against the chair, trying to relax as much as possible. His gaze was cast out train window as John stood up for there were still some other passengers straggling behind on the platform he could observe. As he glanced at the faces and the figures, another yawn escaped his lips. However he was not in the mood to observe the idiotic people outside and he simply did not have the energy to waste on such things. Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a few seconds as John began to talk. He released a deep breath, more people rushing past them to take their seats. All the way in the back, he could hear a conversation a man was having with his wife…no a woman who was not his wife yet was intimate with him. Sherlock furrowed his brow, trying to block out all the sounds he was horribly sensitive to. Yet they just kept passing through his head like he was their conduit. Down in the next train car, there was a young mother who was hushing her nine year old son, it was his first time on a train and he was crying with fear. Next to her was an old man, who was yelling at the blonde attendant for not doing anything about the crying boy. Sitting behind John was an elderly woman and she was wearing dentures and she kept trying to reposition them in her mouth with her tongue. Her husband had recently died and there was a slight rasp in her voice when she asked for a glass of wine.  
  
Sherlock reached up and began massaging his temples. He could not block out the sounds of those around him and the information just kept stacking up inside his head. The voices of other people on the train may not sound as loud to anyone else, but to Sherlock he could hear every detail if he concentrated enough. Yet amongst all this madness and yelling, he could hear John’s voice for it had a different tone to it than the others. It was more relaxed and much more familiar to him, like home he realized. Sherlock released another deep breath, concentrating on John’s words in the sea of madness around them. He raised his fingers and began rubbing his temples softly as the sounds around him died off slowly till he could mainly only hear the doctor’s voice. “Mrs. Brennan inherited it from her husband who died fifteen years ago. For an old woman, she is not very superstitious yet she does not want the reputation of the castle to be cast in a bad light. The locals fear the castle, saying it is cursed and apparently, women used to commit suicide some fifty years ago. Women would journey into the castle and never come back. The police would come and investigate only to find a body. The families of the women would always say the same thing, that the victim was acting weird in the last few days before their disappearance. Before that, the girls were perfectly happy. Beautiful, confidante with everything to live for…Before the suicides, there were so called _ghosts_ spotted in the castle. Just figures and shadows in the empty building. The owner said that no one has lived in the castle for a good two hundred years and their family has been keeping the castle from falling to the ground. However, the last family that lived in the castle consisted of a Mr. and Mrs. Brennan and their children; twin girls and one son. Apparently, there was something wrong with the youngest boy and he was kept inside the castle for most of his life, probably a skin disease. He died suddenly when he was only seven years old. Frustratingly enough, I could not find any other records on what happened to the rest of the family.” Sherlock took another deep breath, finally opening his eyes.  
  
The blonde attendant was standing there, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. Slowly, she placed down their drinks and left without saying a word. Sherlock took up one of the glasses of whiskey and placed it in front of John before picking up the other and taking a sip from it. The younger male let out another yawn, leaning back in the seat while continuing to drink slowly from the glass. At the end of his tale, the train began its journey out of the station and they were off…for Ireland.

 

~ * ~

 

John counted a fourth yawn before Sherlock started to explain the facts of the case that were to his knowledge, the truth. He jotted down important points and made a quick examination of their list before he replied. "Not much to go on until we see the castle then..." He sighed, closing his journal and sitting it in his lap, looking up and smiling tersely at the attendant. After all, she had accused them of being lovers...and maybe if he could even wrap his mind around that kind of thing, it wouldn't have been so bad to hear her say it. But Sherlock was sort of a machine, he solved cases and he didn't get involved or emotionally attached. He was capable of emotion, of expressing it, as he had seen in his deep fear and paranoia during the case of the Hound of Baskerville. But Sherlock seemed...less willing to dwell on the softer sides of emotion. True, he had shown fondness, even admitted to it a little in passing. Though John doubted he loved anyone or anything...aside from the chase and the games of a case.  
  
"You couldn't find out what the child, the young Brennan son, died of exactly?" John sipped from his glass of whiskey, grimacing around the burn of the alcohol. He had only used to drink beers and Bourbon occasionally, but in the years he had known Sherlock he had been known to tolerate a whiskey here and there. Sherlock claimed it was one of the finer, masculine types of drink. John simply knew it reminded him of cowboys...  
  
"Well, I can't say I believe such a place could be haunted either Sherlock, but that photograph you showed me was rather peculiar. I think maybe...foul play? But you said none of the villagers seemed threatened by the sale of the castle?" John frowned and slid the bottom end of his fountain pen along the seam of his lips as he thought, glancing out the window as the station fell away and London began to crawl by. He knew better than to form a hypothesis without more facts, more data as Sherlock called it. And Sherlock wouldn't want his mind to be complicated by such bias and ill-formed ideas either, so he kept his wonderings to himself, jotting down a few things in the side margin of his journal next to the list. "Did you hear any accounts of supposed...'sightings'?" John used his fingers to form air quotes around the word, looking very skeptical. "Since when did we start picking up cases worthy of the Ghost Busters? I suppose it's my fault, putting you onto crap telly..." John muttered around the rim of his glass, taking another stinging swig of his drink, ice clinking against the glass.  
  
When he turned his gaze more towards Sherlock and less out the window behind him, John was able to see him better in the mid-evening gloom, a sultry London lying in overcast skies with a fog hovering overhead, threatening to descend at any moment. He wondered if the weather at the coast would be any better, or perhaps worse. He was glad for the thermal underwear he had thought to pack. Sherlock was deathly pale that much he noted just before the train entered a short tunnel and blacked out the natural light, leaving the dim glow of the internal train lights to go by. On the other side of the tunnel, John took another glance. His friend looked very, very tired...and he hoped this case wouldn't put him out for a week afterwards. If they were to be hanging around this castle, which he assumed wouldn't be outfitted for proper living since it hadn't seen a family in more than two centuries, John had a nagging feeling Sherlock would be returning to London either sicker than a dog...or exhausted beyond all comprehension. He would have suggested a nap to Sherlock, but in this moment, he figured Sherlock would simply accuse him of mothering him again. Pursing his lips, John bit the inside of his cheek and wrote down a few of Sherlock's replies before he sat up and pocketed his journal, flipping his book open, "Guess that's all we can do for now." He muttered, flipping through the pages of his novel to where he had dog-eared a page.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes shutting for a few seconds before he forced them to open again. “No. The original documents of the boy’s death were destroyed. The current file on record only shows the year of death and his immediate family’s passing. The locals didn’t know much about him either. I felt that they were hiding something.” He said in a softer tone than usual. The detective shook his head, trying to keep his eyes open. This was what he got for not sleeping well for the past few weeks. He was rather surprised that he wasn’t hallucinating or anything. Sherlock took a large, burning swallow of the whiskey before placing the glass down on the table in front of him. Sherlock could feel his body fighting with him every second. It was demanding that he went to sleep and he was fighting it, believing that they needed to get to the castle before he could rest. Every few seconds his eyes would close and flicker, then open again as he fought back sleep. It must have looked rather odd to anyone watching him.  
  
The sickly looking male leaned back into his seat, trying not to get too comfortable but unable to resist the urge to relax. Once he felt himself drifting off, he sat back up so that his head was not supported by the headrest. The more he relaxed, the easier it would be to fall asleep, so Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly a few times before looking over at John. He focused his eyes on the doctor’s face, drinking some more of the whiskey. ”Of course it’s not a haunting. Ghosts are created within a person’s own mind from fear and…” Sherlock paused for a few moments. He was staring at John but no words came from his lips. The exhaustion seemed to be hitting him hard now. Was it because he was sitting still and not doing anything, or possibly because he had not taken any drugs in a while? He continued as if he hadn’t just paused mid-sentence, “..Imagination. Yes, none of them cared that the castle was being sold. They did not want anything to do with the castle actually and to them, it is as if the very ground the castle sits on is taboo.” Sherlock gave up and finally leaned back in the chair, letting his body relax again.  
  
However, he kept his eyes opened, focusing on the sound of John’s voice once again. “Yes, there were various sightings of so called ghosts by the castle and in it; apparently there is a very tall man who is seen outside the castle quite often. He is the one in the photo that I showed you. People say that he walks around the land there and that there is a younger boy that has been spotted as well. Yet he is only seen in windows when you are looking up from the outside. Also, there have been sightings of different women in and outside of the house. Why these people are seeing these _ghosts_ is what I have not yet figured out.” Sherlock said just before the trained entered a tunnel. The darkness felt good on his eyes and immediately, as if it were on instinct, he shut them for the rest of the ensuing darkness. But once the train shot out into the gloomy day light again, he slowly opened his eyes and peered out of the window. Everything had begun to seem a bit blurry in his vision again and he spoke wearily, ”You can always practice deduction.” The words came out a bit slurred and it was only seconds before Sherlock’s eyes closed and his body went completely limp like someone had turned out a light. Just as the train was making a turn Sherlock’s limp body fell against John’s side, only this time Sherlock did not move again. He was completely out cold, his breathing steady and his body completely relaxed. Sherlock’s head rested against the top of John’s shoulder, his hair brushing against the doctor’s neck every time the train swayed. The detective didn’t move or wake up for he was far too exhausted to even notice.

~ * ~

 

John had no idea just exactly what they were getting themselves into. He was a skeptic on all things supernatural, so this case seemed like an entire sham to him. But Sherlock had taken up the case, and once Sherlock started in on a case, it was impossible to get him to drop it solely because it seemed fishy. In fact, all the more reason for the consulting detective to wish to solve it. So John made no comment to the 'sightings' the villagers and photographers had witnessed. Until he saw it for his own eyes, he wouldn't believe an ounce of it.  
  
The yawn count had racketed up to six now and John was just about to suggest Sherlock take a nap, but when he looked at his friend his eyes were already closed, though he had been fighting it for some time to the point where he resembled an owl the way he'd close one eye and pry it open again only to have the other fall shut on him. If John hadn't been so concerned, he would have laughed. Finally, Sherlock seemed to succumb and John took up his book again, intending to wile the rest of the time away deep in his stories. But Sherlock obviously, even when unconscious, wasn't going to allow that. John started from his reading when the heavy weight of Sherlock's ten pound head flopped onto his old wounded shoulder, "Ow." John grimaced and felt a flush creeping up from his collar. He glanced around. No one was looking directly at them...yet.  
  
John considered his options. He could move Sherlock and risk the chance of him waking and fighting off sleep for another long while until succumbing again and most-likely committing the same nose-dive onto John's shoulder. Or he could leave Sherlock where he was, like a good doctor, and let him get the rest he wasn't allowing himself to get. Of course, the later involved him sacrificing his reputation and masculinity for the duration of Sherlock's nap, perhaps a small price to pay if Sherlock ended up being more amiable after getting some sleep. John made his decision and as the train attendant walked by with a smug look cast in his direction, he glowered at her and reached up to smooth Sherlock's hair back from where it was tickling his neck. He hated to admit it to himself...but this encounter was a little satisfying. He prodded down the desire he had had since seeing Sherlock, past the initial anger, to embrace the detective. Perhaps he would never get another chance like this to savor the small contact with the friend he had thought to be dead for three full years. He looked out the window, his book going ignored in his lap as well as all thought to the other passengers. Well, until a teenage kid sitting across the aisle from him made a disgusted face. John scowled at him, "Oh sod off." He huffed, sinking a little lower in his seat and going back to his book.  
  
John read for a time, but the swaying of the train didn't help to keep him interested, and Sherlock's warm and steady breath against his chest was a distraction that baffled him. He ended up dozing off as well, his cheek pressed against Sherlock's curly haired head, the long trip mostly forgotten and missed as they slept it away.  
  
The train blew its whistle as they entered the station at Holyhead and John started awake, rubbing his eyes and sitting up some. He nudged Sherlock gently and touched him on the shoulder, "Sherlock, we've got to catch the ferry. C'mon." He didn't look Sherlock in the eye as he gathered his things and stood as the train unloaded. They emerged into a bracing coastal wind and John pulled his coat closed, zipping it up and folding his arms over his chest to keep his body heat locked in his jacket. "There." He pointed towards a wooden boardwalk that lined the shops on the other side of the tracks and behind them, the choppy expanse of the Irish Sea. "Harbor's gotta be close." He raised his voice a little over the clatter of the train and the conversation of the people departing the platform. The wind whipped his short blonde hair about on his head like the waving of grasslands.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock stayed precariously perched against John’s shoulder for the whole trip to Holyhead. His breath stayed steady and slow and it might have been the first time in the past three years that he actually was truly relaxed to get a good amount of sleep for that matter. Although, some might argue that sleeping in a train is not really sleeping. However, it was the most sleep that he had gotten in a long time. Sherlock’s eyes opened a bit as he felt John’s hand touching his shoulder. He blinked a few times, trying to figure out just what had happened. Without looking at what whom he was leaning on, he lifted up his head and rubbed his eyes. Even though he had only slept for a few hours, there was a small amount of color returning to his face. He might still look similar to a dead person but there was still a flare of life in him. Sherlock groaned softly, looking up at John as his friend got up to collect his bag.  
  
Slowly but surely, Sherlock joined him, grabbing his own bag from the overhead compartment. He swung it over his shoulder, still seeming almost asleep in the slant of his eyes and the lethargy in his limbs. Despite that, Sherlock followed John off of the train and into the harsh coastal wind. While John’s attempt at waking him up only made him move, the wind certainly did wake him up to his full capacity. Sherlock stood there on the platform for a few seconds as it hit him, the cold air rushing into his lungs and making it difficult for him to breathe for a few moments. He re-wrapped the scarf around his neck so that it covered his mouth a bit. It prevented the wind from directly entering his mouth when he dared open it, saving him the disgusting taste of the briny sea air. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, watching John as he pointed somewhere off in the distance. For once, Sherlock trusted the former army doctor’s sense of direction; he had not gotten them lost before.  
  
“Half way there, John.” He said before quickly taking off toward the boardwalk. Sherlock kept his head down, avoiding as much of the wind as he could. He felt much better than before and fortunately he was able to rest before emerging in this environment or else he might have actually passed out from the bracing wind that stung his eyes. Honestly, he wanted to go back to sleep where he was before on the rocking train. There was a certain amount of warmth he had on the train that made it even better. Yet, Sherlock could not remember what it had been exactly.

As soon as he reached the boardwalk, he glanced back at John to make sure he was okay. Not far up ahead, Sherlock could spot the harbor coming into view. “John! We are almost there. We can make it before the next ferry leaves.” He shouted back at his friend before he started up a light jog toward the harbor. Every few feet he would glance back to make sure the good doctor was keeping up. John was no weak old fool but the air here was difficult to breathe so he wanted to make sure nothing befell his old friend. It was even hard for him to navigate this bracing wind and the cold ocean air had a strange effect on people’s health. Sherlock ran up the harbor just as the ferry was getting ready to leave and he ran a little faster still, skidding on the deck planks when he reached the ticket booth. He purchased two tickets from the woman in the toll booth motioned for John to follow him up the covered gang plank onto the ferry’s deck. The cold air was worse when you were out on the water, making Sherlock pull in his coat closer around himself, “We made it! See wasn’t that easy?” The ferry blasted its horn as it undocked from the harbor, drifting away slowly from England’s shore. 

 

~ * ~

 

John was a little surprised that Sherlock wasn't completely awake enough to register just what, or whom rather, he had been using as a pillow. But so be it, it would only be an embarrassing conversation anyhow and John doubted the detective would ever admit he had fallen asleep in such a manner. It would be...John's secret then. Perhaps blackmail for later, dammit he should have gotten a picture.  
  
The wind was dreadful and John found himself pulling the hood of his jumper up to act as a slight buffer between himself and the blustery coastal wind. He gripped the strap of his bag tightly as Sherlock took off towards the boardwalk, following him at as much of his own pace as he could, the damp weather making his shoulder ache. He was breathing hard by the time they reached the harbor and the dock where the ferry was pulled up to, the planks wide enough to fit cars as they drove up onto the ferry. Bending over, he had a moment to catch some of his breath with his hands on his knees while the ticket master issued them both tickets for the ferry and they were off again, walking briskly. If their tickets had been taken, why were they still running?  
  
Once on the ship, John dropped his pack down by his feet along the ship's railing and leaned against it, bowing his head over his arms and resolving to hit the gym a few times a week for a while, just until he could get back into the shape he had been before Sherlock’s disappearance. Lifting his head, he squinted across the water and then over at Sherlock, "No...Considering this was the last ferry to leave this evening." John panted softly, straightening and picking up his pack. "C'mon, it's bloody freezing out here." He nodded towards the inner decks of the ferry and the bracing wind subsided as they walked in through sliding automatic doors. There were food vending machines, stairs going down to where cars were parked, and stairs leading up to an observation deck. John nodded towards a bank of windows that lined the front of this spacious cabin, showing the area ahead as they moved onward. John sat down on a bench in front of these windows and looked up at Sherlock. "Just a little over an hour and we'll be in Dublin." He sniffed, stretching his arms out long the back of the bench. He didn't move much in that time, getting up once to feed some pounds into a vending machine to nab some crisps, offering some to Sherlock, figuring he wouldn't want to eat when he was on a case but he figured he could try.  
  
The weather in Dublin wasn't any better to say the least and John changed on the ferry into his thermals, meeting Sherlock out on the decks as the ferry docked into the harbor. Foot passengers flowed off the ship through a metal gangplank that was entirely encased so not a single item could be lost through cracks into the ocean. Cars drove off the ferry onto a paved bridge that curved off into the land moorings of the marina. "Just where _is_ this castle Sherlock? Should we rent a car?" It was dark now and John even wondered if their host would be up and about to meet them. It was some time past nine after all. "Should we kip up in a hotel somewhere until morning?"

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock more than willingly followed John into the warm inner deck of the ferry. Even if he was a case solving machine, the cold was not something he enjoyed. As soon as he entered the room, he pushed the scarf back down and away from his mouth, licking his chapped lips. The cold air had completely dried out any moisture in his eyes, nose, and mouth. The only good thing about this weather was that it gave a similar effect of jumping into a freezing cold shower after getting up in the morning. His eyes that were once struggling to stay open were now filled with a new found drive and utterly dry and stinging. Sherlock walked to the benches with John, sitting down and leaning against the back of the bench. His body was slouched down in a very lazy fashion, his head tipped back over the edge of the bench between his splayed arms. However, his eyes slid over John’s frame as he spoke, not making any effort to reply and simply shutting his eyes, his mind off calculating the pieces of this case. After just resting for a few hours, his mind was already rushing off to try and put together the pieces of this puzzle.  
  
Thankfully, John did not seem to be in much of a talking mood so Sherlock could let his mind wonder off to the deepest recesses of his mind palace. He was still there mentally, hearing and noticing when John got up to get food and such. He even got bored and timed the exact time it took for John to walk over to the vending machines, buy food, and come back. Exactly three minutes, twenty five seconds and fourteen mili-seconds. Whenever John offered him food, he would raise his hand to refuse without even opening his eyes. Sherlock was hungry and his body was struggling to deal with this but it was merely a conflict between mind and transport. Sherlock would glance over at John every few minutes, whenever John was distracted enough that he could reach over and steal a Quaver. It was mind over matter, but Sherlock knew a human body needed some form of sustenance to keep moving. Plus, it was becoming entertaining to see how many crisps he could take without John noticing.  
  
It wasn’t too long before they reached the harbor and Sherlock sat up quickly, walking off onto the deck as John went to change. He didn’t care what he was wearing, ignoring the cold entirely. While John was gone, he pulled out one of the boxes of nicotine patches from his bag and held the box between his teeth while he pulled up his sleeves. He put two patches on his left arm and three on his right. This way if John got curious he would most likely only check one of his arms and not the other. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as the nicotine bled into his system, leaning back against the railing and packing the box away. He waited patiently on deck until he spotted John returning from the loo.  
  
“It’s off on the Dingle Peninsula, exactly two hundred and seventeen miles southwest of Dublin. It will take about four hours to get there by car. If we were to rent one now we would get there at about one or two in the morning. Not unless I drive. We can’t do much in that darkness even if we get there in four hours or three. We might as well stay in a hotel, it’s not like there is a rush against time here. The dead can wait till we get there John.” Sherlock spoke quickly and smoothly, which was very different from how he had been speaking that afternoon. It was true; it was pointless to get there when it was completely dark. Sherlock couldn’t question more people or scout out the castle in the darkness. After all, the castle did not have electricity or heat. Staying in a hotel would be much more pleasant than sleeping in an ice cold castle. Sherlock walked off the ship and onto solid ground, observing the ground for a few moments before continuing to walk toward the parking lot next to the port. There was a small line of cabs for some of the passengers who need rides and Sherlock carried his bag over to one, opening the door before sliding in. “Take us to the nearest hotel. Not a lousy one where they serve you cereal for dinner. Money doesn’t matter.”  
  
Sherlock leaned back in the seat as the driver mumbled something in a deep Irish accent, driving off as soon as John got in. The drive was a short ten to fifteen minute one before they pulled up to a small hotel called the Aberdeen Lodge. It was a small place yet it looked quiet and clean. Beautiful ivy was growing up the side of the building and Sherlock paid the cabbie before grabbing his bag and stepping out onto the sidewalk. He carried his bag into the bed and breakfast’s main doors. Down a hallway was a female receptionist with lovely red hair and she smiled at them sweetly. “Hello, let me welcome you to the Aberdeen Lodge, are you gentlemen looking for a room?” The girl had a very soft accent; clearly her parents were a mix of Irish and English. Her manners were strong and she used more English words than Irish yet her appearance was very striking for a woman. She was trying to flirt with Sherlock and she was leaning against the desk, her chest popping out through the top of her buttoned down blouse.  
  
“We need a room just for tonight; we will be leaving early tomorrow morning. Anything will do.” He said, not taken in by the girl at all. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Mycroft’s credit card, placing it on the desk for payment. The woman stared at him for a second before something clicked in her head and she smiled widely, taking the card.  
  
“Yes sir. You know what? Our honeymoon suite is vacant. I will give you that room; it is much more romantic than the others. Fresh flower petals on the bed, the mattress is new as well. Plus, the tub has room for two. It’s on the third floor at the end of the hall. It’s easy to find with the heart on the door.” The red haired woman spoke while swiping the card and picking up a key to the room, putting it on the desk for them to collect. “Enjoy your stay. Do you need help with your bags?” She asked sweetly, getting ready to call someone to help before Sherlock simply started walking away from the girl with his small valise in tow.

 

~ * ~   
  
John almost jumped when he heard Sherlock's voice speak behind him, for he had been turned to look out over the dark sea and the black sky, clouds covering any stars that might be out. For a second, it sounded just like the old Sherlock, in charge and completely composed and strong. But when he turned, he still saw the gaunt figure he had rescued that evening from their old flat, having turned it into his own personal hell. It made John's heart constrict and ache for a moment, hoping he could help Sherlock regain some of his old health again. But he was being dually stubborn over his drug stashes...Lestrade had already texted him while they were on the ferry, telling him the place had been swept for drugs but they had come up clean. Sherlock had obviously hid them out of the flat. John hadn't replied to that text, simply pocketing his phone with a worried crease in his brow and a thin-mouthed smile at his friend.  
  
Thankfully it was warmer in the cab they selected, "You're not driving there Sherlock, not for a four hour trip. I'll see about a car in the morning and I'll drive, alright?" He had never seen Sherlock drive, and he doubted he even had a license, since being in London didn't exactly require you to have one. John had one from his time in the army since he had to be able to drive a Hum-V. Setting his bag on the floor of the cab, John decided looking out the window was useless since nothing would look the same in the daylight anyway.  
  
The Aberdeen lodge was a cozy affair; he brought his bag up to his shoulder and walked down the cobble steps and pathway to the heavy wooden door, holding it open for Sherlock behind him who had paid the cabbie for once. John shivered as they got inside for it was as warm as an oven inside, he could smell the musky scent of a fire crackling somewhere in the lobby and found it nestled against a wall away from the reception desk. He took a moment to appreciate the girl behind the counter for he had never dated a girl with that a bright shade of red hair before, but he didn't find it too appealing at the moment, especially how she was hanging all over Sherlock's words. He cast his friend a slightly smug look, which dropped off his face when the girl changed her tone. He colored, but not in embarrassment this time, but anger. Really? The train attendant and now the hotel concierge? John's hand curled into a fist on the counter top and he opened his mouth to rebuke her ridiculous words, but Sherlock just snapped up the keys and walked coolly away, his collar all turned up like he was someone important. John scowled, following, but pointing over his shoulder at the girl, "No." He said firmly, "Just. No." His shoulders slumped with a heavy sigh as they mounted the old stairs and walked all the way up to the third floor. Once at the top, he had wished they had asked for help with their bags...his shoulder was killing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos make idea bunnies multiply! So do comments, let us know what you think. =D


	4. If These Walls Could Talk...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sour nightmares, deals with drugs, and creepy castles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is probably the largest one Loretta and I have posted thus far. It took us both forever to go over with a fine toothed comb and we are still a bit iffy on a few areas, so go easy on us guys. Thank you for the bookmarks! I makes us so excited to know someone likes our story and is reading it! Please give us your thoughts, this is a slow building story but we promise...we'll get there. Just around the river bend! -runs-

Sure enough, down the hall on the left sat their room, a wooden pink heart stuck to the door. He grimaced as it was unlocked and they filed inside. It was nice, he'd give the place that...but it was nice for a couple, not two flatmates kipping together for one night. John set his bag down by the open closet and pursed his lips at the sight of the rose petals strewn about the four-poster bed, gauzy white fabric wrapped around the posts and flowing between them. "Lovely." He muttered to himself, unzipping his coat and hanging it in the closet. Since they didn't have a reservation, a fire hadn't been built in the fireplace ahead of them so John walked over and stooped to build it himself, stacking the logs in with kindling over them and striking a match that he found in one of the bed-side table drawers. Honeymoon sweet indeed...he could almost scoff. No doubt all this romantic stuff passed right over Sherlock's head and went completely ignored. But of course...there was only one bed and a set of chairs before the fireplace. Sighing, he figured he'd be sleeping in a chair.  
  
Turning, John hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the bathroom, "Do you need anything before I take a shower...?" He ran a hand through his stiff, sea-blown hair, scratching at his scalp. He would come to find...that there was no shower, just the over-sized bathtub. Perhaps he could go on down to the lobby and ask about any leftovers from a dinner that had been served much earlier than they had arrived. He was famished; those crisps had only served to tide him over on the ferry.

 

~ * ~

 

The room was fairly nice but Sherlock did not care for such things nor would he in the near future. His mind was off in other places while he walked through the room, mindlessly examining it. He did not keep this up for too long. After one lap around the room, he dropped his bag beside the bed and kicked it underneath the skirt like it was worthless to him. There was nothing important in it. Correction, there was nothing _unsecured_ that would be able to break inside his bag. Sherlock proceeded to flop down onto the white sheets of the bed that was covered in rose petals. He laid there on his back for a few minutes before picking up one of the rose petals and sniffing it. “What _is_ the point of this stuff, John? It cannot be _even_ remotely considered attractive nor does it make the bed smell better. The bed doesn’t smell bad in the first place. Not unless these are meant to be edible.” Sherlock threw a rose petal into his mouth and began chewing on it.  It was absolutely disgusting but he kept chewing anyway as he watched John wonder over to the bathroom. He’d eat it for science!  
  
“No, I do not need anything, dearest mother. I have _all_ the rose petals I need. Go take a shower, you smell like Lestrade.” He waved John away, continuing to chew on the petal. His tongue was turning a deeper shade of red from the pigment within the modified leaf. Out of boredom and impatience Sherlock began humming and he closed his eyes and waited until John went into the bathroom to take a shower before proceeding to do anything else. Once John was safely behind closed doors, he continued to hum impatiently until he heard the water being turned on. As soon as the water started running, Sherlock sat up, spitting the petal onto the floor and quickly he picking up the phone beside the bedstand. It rang exactly three times before the red head down stairs picked up.

“Hello, how may I help you?” She asked in a very cheerful tone, most likely playing with her red hair as she spoke.

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Um…I require some assistance, I am in room twenty. I am here with my boyfriend and we have had a very long journey, is there any way we could ask for some dinner?” He spoke softly, using a more feminine voice than his deep one. Hey…this girl thought he was gay, he was going to milk this if it got John and him some supper.  
  
“I am sorry! We just stopped serving dinner.” The red head replied and he could hear a slight trace of sympathy in her voice that made him smile a bit wickedly before he continued.

“Oh…I am sorry for bothering you…It’s just that my boyfriend, John, he got mad at me for getting a late train ride to the port. He wanted to have dinner with me tonight but there is no where we can go this late to get something nice to eat. It’s so cold out. But I will have to go out then…I just hope I can find somewhere before midnight. I-I just don’t want him to be mad at me.” Sherlock spoke slowly, adding a fearful and panicked tone to his voice, making it tremble softly at the end. The red head gasped, pausing for a few minutes while trying to talk to someone else. Their voices were muffled, the phone was undoubtedly being cradled against her bosom.  
  
It took a minute or two before he heard her move the phone and begin to speak. “No! Don’t worry; we will take care of everything! Just please relax. We will bring some food up in about an hour. Is there anything you would like to request?” The girl asked and he could hear the ruffling of paper on the other side of the phone, readying herself to take notes.  Sherlock smiled, “Th-Thank you so much! It is so cold outside! Anything warm, please, and some tea if you could. Stew or soup would be lovely. Thank you so much again. I really appreciate it. My boyfriend will be so happy.” The girl accepted the order and hung up after Sherlock declined telling her more about John. He let out a sigh before standing up and ruffling a hand through his messy curls.  
  
Sherlock knelt down besides the bed and pulled out some navy blue pajama pants from his velise, throwing it onto the bed before he flopped back down onto the mattress to wait for John to be done with the bathroom. This day had been exhausting for his poorly conditioned form. John was busy in the bathroom, giving him some time alone to think about feeling eyes on him constantly. Being alone was much more familiar to him from his three years apart from John, it had been an awful lot like how he’d lived before he’d even met the doctor. He rolled over on the bed, resting his head on a pillow and shutting his eyes. Concentrating on the sound of the running water, he began to let his mind drift. As the seconds passed, his body gradually relaxed, leaving only the limp body of the brunette sleeping on the rose covered duvet.   
  
 _It was the day Sherlock stood on the ledge of the St. Bart’s Hospital rooftop. Behind him on the ground was the body of Moriarty, a bullet straight through his brain from the own madman’s gun. It was silent; absolutely quiet. There was a breeze, blowing his long coat around his legs. There he stood, his two feet on the ledge as he saw a cab pulling up on the street. It was John._

_Quickly, his fingers traced the familiar buttons on his phone, calling his friend. Just as John came out of the car he picked up the call, “Hello?” John answered as he ran across the street._

_With a heavy breath, Sherlock managed to say the other man’s name, “John.”_

_  
John ran cross the street, heading towards the hospital, “Hey Sherlock, you okay?”_

_  
“Turn back around and walk back the way you came.”_

_  
“No, I am coming in.”_

_  
“Just do as I ask!” Sherlock raised his voice, causing John to stop in the middle of the street. The former doctor turned around and began walking._

_  
“Where?”_

_  
“Stop there!”_

_  
“Sherlock?”_

_  
“Okay, look up. I am on the rooftop.”_

_  
“Oh, god…”_

_  
“I-I…I can’t come down. So we’ll just have to do it like this.”_

_  
“What’s going on?”_

_  
“An apology…It’s all true.”_

_  
“What?”_

_  
“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty…”_

_  
“Why are you saying this?”_

_  
“I’m a fake.” The words came out with a struggle and Sherlock’s voice wavered just a little._

_  
“Sherlock!”_

_  
“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”_

_  
“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met- …the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, huh?”_

_  
“Nobody could be that clever.” Sherlock tried to smile but it was tight and felt strange against his cheeks._

_  
“You could.” John’s remark caused Sherlock to let out a short laugh. No one on the face of the planet believed in Sherlock as much as John Watson. He paused, staring down at John’s small figure. A tear dripped down his face and fell down, down, down over the edge of the building._

_  
“I researched you.” It came out choked; pained, “Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick, just a magic trick.” _

_  
“No, stop it now!” John began moving back towards  the hospital but Sherlock yelled down the phone line at him._

_“No! Stay exactly where you are! Don’t move!” John stopped, raising his arm in the air defensively, as if he could forestall any rash movements by the gesture alone._

  
“All right.” His tone was pacifying; scared.  
Sherlock reached out his arm in the direction of his friend, as if his arm might reach him across the vast distance standing between them. If it was possible, he would have grabbed the doctor’s very hand and grasped it tightly. “Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please will you do this for me?” Sherlock’s voice cracked and he pursed his lips to keep them from trembling.

_  
“Do what?”_

_  
“This phone call, it’s uh…” he swallowed, “it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”_

_  
“Leave a note when?”_

_  
There was a pause before Sherlock answered; his next words he knew were going to be his last to his only friend. “Good-bye John.”_

_  
“No, don’t.” John’s voice caught as he sucked in a sharp breath, poised to shout-_

__  
Sherlock didn’t wait to listen to more of his friend’s voice. He pulled the phone away from his ear and threw it onto the roof behind himself. On the street, John began screaming his name. There was no way he could escape from this. If he did not do this…John would die. Sherlock spread his arms wide and took the first and last step of and plummeted from the top of the hospital. There was no garbage truck waiting to stop his fall. Sherlock’s body smashed against the concrete, blood oozing out of his body, sliding from the corners of his eyes and pooling his mouth to drip past his lips parted in blank shock. Yet he could still see things around him in a blur. John was running up to him, screaming his name. Sherlock tried to breathe, tried to move but he couldn’t. His vision began to fade and he tried to scream one word…  
  
  
”John!!” Sherlock’s body jerked up from the bed. He was covered in sweat; his chest heaving as he sucked air back into his lungs desperately. His clammy hands reached up, running through his damp hair as he glanced around the room. It was just a dream…Sherlock’s breathing was still heavy and panicked as he quickly got off the bed and began pacing around the room.

His footsteps were fast and stomping as he paced and he took off his dark blue scarf and tossed it onto the ground, his coat soon following. His clothing was damp slightly with his cold sweat but Sherlock didn’t stop moving, his eyes wide with a high level of fear and tension deep set in them. Every muscle in his body was tensed, on the verge of cramping even. It had felt so real. Everything had been right down to the merest of details…Except for the ending. The pain; Sherlock could swear on his existing grave that he could feel every second of that pain and impact. He reached up, his hands feeling his skull, expecting to feel the wet blood dripping from his head, yet there was only sweat. Sherlock continued to walk back and forth as if it would somehow make the emotions disappear. It was not the first time that he had experienced this nightmare. Actually it was exactly the one hundred and ninety third time that he had dreamt falling to his own very real death. It had started a few months after Sherlock had escaped Moriarty’s trap. After that day…it had crept up on him every few nights a week or so.

 

~ * ~

 

John stared at Sherlock as he proceeded to eat the rose petals, "No, Sherlock...they're not for eating, not raw anyway. Oddly enough, they're supposed to be romantic." He grimaced, collecting some of his toiletries from his bag, "Not that you'd even know what romance is anyway. Believe it or not, some people find spending a night on rose-petals a fantasy." He wasn't going to talk about this anymore, it was drawing much to near to certain topics he refused to discuss with Sherlock. He rolled his eyes as Sherlock made his comments, setting his stuff in the bathroom, "Don't eat any more of them, they could have put insecticides on them." He closed the door and shook his head in bemusement as he undressed. Unfortunately, there was no shower...just a tub. He scowled at the wide, heart-shaped Jacuzzi tub. Really, did they have to pull the stops out in all places? Sighing, he decided he had no other choice, so he opened the tap and put the plug in.  
  
It was relaxing at least to be able to sink into hot water up to his chin, getting the business of washing himself out of the way while the water ran out of the tap before he shut it off and sunk back into the soapy, murky water. He could turn on the jets, but he knew if he got used to this, he wouldn't be able to look at his dingy old tub at home the same. Against his better judgment, John found himself dozing in and out, his head resting back against the lip of the tub, doing his best not to think about the sleeping arrangements they had ahead of them. It was just one night, he could manage it in a chair, take some medication for his back in the morning.  
  
Losing track of time, John let his mind wander. Unfortunately, it kept returning to the events of the last few weeks. Of Sherlock's return, his explanation of the facts, the capture and arrest of Sebastian Moran. He figured out that Sherlock hadn't exactly told John what it was Moriarty had used against him to make him jump. The man had been killed, correct? What could he possibly do to make Sherlock jump off a roof and commit 'suicide', for that was what it was even if it had been a fake? He hoped that no one else had any kind of power like that over Sherlock. He didn't think he would be able to handle it a second time. Losing Sherlock again would prove to be...a rather large blow, even larger than the first time. To be reunited with someone after believing in their death, only to have them ripped away again. He shook his head minutely, frowning, refusing to go down that path of thought. It would only lead to pain, after all.  
  
John was just about to return to contemplating whatever it had been in Sherlock's interest to kill himself over, when he heard the most frightening, blood-chilling scream from the bedroom. John's army training leaped to the forefront of his mind and he lurched from the bath, slipping on the wet tiles and grabbing up a towel. He was still wet, dripping water everywhere, but his only intent and purpose was getting back to that bedroom. Yanking the bathroom door open, he raced out into the main area with a towel knotted around his hips. His eyes scanned the entire room for any form of threat, half expecting to see an attacker having ambushed Sherlock in a moment of vulnerability. But the room was empty except for his friend, pacing up and down the room like a caged animal.

John let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, sagging against the back of the chair beside him, reaching up to press a hand over his hammering heart. "Christ, Sherlock...I thought you were being murdered out here." He panted, frowning at the persistent pacing. He walked up to his friend's plotted path and reached out to grasp his arm firmly as he went by again, pulling him around and holding him in place to get a good look at him. "Sherlock? What's wrong...you're covered in sweat." Doctor John took over and John reached up to brush away the damp curls plastered to Sherlock's forehead, feeling for a fever. But Sherlock was clammy and cold. "Are you sick?"  
  
He had seen this level of manic fear and excitement in his friend before, during the case of the Hound of Baskerville. But it had simply been the H.O.U.N.D. chemicals rising up in the fog from vents in the moor then, there was no such drug here now he assumed. Something had scared his friend; deeply. It occurred to him, though he thought that he hadn't been in the bath _that_ long, that perhaps Sherlock had had a nightmare. "Did you have a...bad dream?" He blinked, easing the firmness of his grip only to maneuver Sherlock to sit on the bottom of the bed, releasing him for the most part aside from gently gripping his wrist, turning it over and letting his thumb sit against the pulse point there, monitoring his friend's racing heart. He hadn't given much thought to how he appeared, he hadn't had the time in his urgency to vacate the bathroom. Beads of water slid down his bare chest to seep into the towel around his waist, the star-burst shaped scar on his shoulder standing out in white relief against his flushed skin. He hardly gave thought to his nakedness; sans towel---for all his concern was bent outwards towards his friend.

 

~ * ~

  
In such a dazed state of confusion, he did not notice that John had entered the room until now. Well, this was mainly due to John walking in front of him and blocking his path. His friend gripped his arm strongly enough to stop him and Sherlock paused, staring down at the other man’s hand grasping his bicep. He was alive. It was only a dream and everything was fine. He could feel that shattering pain rushing through his bones. Despite that, John was standing right in front of him…hardly wearing any clothing. Sherlock moved where ever John pulled him, no resistance at all. The taller male stared at the other, his eyes still wide with a certain amount of fear. _I am not dead…It was a dream…I am not dead…I am not dead…I am not dead…I did not die…_ His mind went on and on repeating the words constantly in his head.  
  
Sherlock did not react to any of John’s words. In fact, he did not even hear them. Every sound around him was muffled, creating the feeling of being trapped within a glass box. Sherlock continued to breathe rather heavily, reaching up with his free hand to tug on his own hair desperately as if the pain would snap him out of his mental prison. Once John pulled Sherlock to sit on the bed, his mind began to panic. His eyes were playing tricks on him. He knew it. His vision was blurring, exactly how it blurred right before he died in his dreams again and again. There was a clear amount of distress on his face as he tried fighting against his own mind. _Stop it! Damnit! I am not dead!_ he screamed within the confines of his mind. ”I am not bloody dead!” He yelled, this time escaping the pits of his nightmarish thoughts.  
  
Sherlock’s chest continued to rise up and down as if he had ran all the way from the port to the inn. His eyes were almost completely dilated while his wrist twitched under John’s grasp. Everything had returned back to normal. Now he could see and hear John quite clearly. A large sigh escaped his pale lips and sweat dripped down his colorless, sharp cheekbones and down his chin. Sherlock’s eyes rose to John’s, tracing the doctor’s face as if he was savoring it. John was his friend and moments ago…he felt as if he would never feel the other’s presence for the rest of eternity. As if he was still lost in his nightmares, Sherlock leaned forward, letting the top half of his body become completely limp until his forehead fell against John’s wet chest. There was flesh…and a heartbeat that could only belong to the only person he truly trusted. Sherlock closed his grey eyes, falling completely still. It was just in those few seconds while he was against John’s chest that he let everything go. He was painfully tired of running from that nightmare time and time again. This was the first time that John was actually ever there when the torturous visions of the nightmare lingered in his mind long after it was over. Commonly, Sherlock would have to use drugs to make the images and fear stop. This was one of the reasons why he ended up going back to using the drugs. His eyes were closed when he leaned against his friend’s solid body, all of his muscles relaxing in those few passing minutes. The sound of John’s voice grabbed him and bought him back down to reality.  However, he could not stay like this long. The next thing he heard was the sound of someone coming up the steps out in the hallway. It only took a few seconds before he realized how exactly he was coming off. Sherlock stood up quickly from the bed and began walking away from the doctor. The last thing he wanted was to have John believe that he was getting weak or soft. There was only one way he could escape this.  
  
“Dream? Don’t be foolish…I just shot myself up with drugs. I am as high as the flag of England! If you thought it was a dream then you have learned nothing about deduction!” Sherlock laughed stupidly, walking with no balance what so ever. As he turned back away from John, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lock pick. Smoothly he swung his arm wildly before hitting his left arm, about where Sherlock used the syringe, with his right hand which held the pick. The tip of the pick punctured his skin near some of his old puncture markings. Fortunately the tip of the pick was small so that it would look exactly like the puncture of a needle.  
  
Sherlock turned this time again, for the first time getting a good look at John. He did stop his unbalanced movements yet his eyes fell upon John’s body. There was just something…intriging. John was healthy looking, unlike Sherlock. However, as the water droplets fell off of John’s chest, his eyes could not help but follow them on their descent. Sherlock did not allow his thoughts to continue; instead he stumbled forward towards John. “ _I…!_ I am going to take a shower bath thing; stuff, water activities. Now. Get all clean.” He sniffed dismissively, hands on his hips, “Yeah. Where is the…?” He paused, looking around the room until his eyes found the bathroom. He let out a strange laugh before starting to walk towards it.

 

~ * ~

 

John could see the panic level in Sherlock rising, ricocheting up the scales as he fought to control whatever hazy state of mind he was in. He could see his friend's piercing grey eyes glaze, un-focusing from him and seeing through him for a while. John was beginning to fear he might pass out in a moment and he gripped Sherlock's shoulder again with his free hand, "Sherlock, look at me?" He dipped his chin to get a better look, grasping Sherlock's chin as he swayed and tilting his head up to get a better look at his eyes in this dim light. His pupils were dilated; his breathing elevated, bordering on hyperventilation; and his heart was racing faster than a marathon runner. John wanted to get to his first aid kit, possibly give Sherlock a sedative or a detox if he had taken any drugs...but he was afraid to leave Sherlock's side, especially when he shouted, _'I'm not bloody dead!'_ John blinked, realizing the source of Sherlock's internal struggle and panic.  
  
The look that met his face when Sherlock seemed to snap out of things nearly broke John's heart and he swallowed thickly, murmuring, "No Sherlock, you're not dead...you're here with me. We're in Dublin." He murmured blue eyes soft, brows pinched in worry. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as Sherlock slumped forward in exhaustion, catching his friend as he dipped in against his chest. Warm, soft doctor's hands slid up Sherlock's back and into his damp, brown curls, a comforting touch. "And I'm...glad that you're not. Dead, I mean..." He murmured, sucking in a sharp breath and clearing his throat at the odd twisting in his gut brought on by that admission. He released Sherlock as he pulled away, relieved to find his breathing had slowed down and his eyes no longer looked on with such frantic fear. Since he was looking down at Sherlock, he saw the very shift of a hard mask sliding over the vulnerable face of his friend. He had seen the mask in different stages of wear, even seen it once removed as it had been now...but he had never witnessed the moment it blanked all emotion from Sherlock's face until now. He almost shuddered at it, dropping his hands from Sherlock like he was too much to hold onto, his arms dropping to his sides on the bed.  
  
He got to his feet as Sherlock shoved away from him, watching the brunette as he wandered away, his words sinking in and hardening John's own expression. So he was going to play _that_ card...but John knew the difference between a drug induced mania and that of natural fear. But it didn't hurt any less that Sherlock would rather take up that excuse than talk to him about what he had been so upset about. John's lips thinned into an expressionless line. "Alright, fine...be an arse." He huffed, turning away from the spectacle Sherlock was making of himself, annoyed that he was using the one thing he hated the most about Sherlock against him. John turned towards his duffel, throwing it onto the edge of the bed and waiting until he heard the water draining in the bath, for he hadn't had the frame of thought to do so when he had rushed out before. He pulled out a pair of navy blue Y-fronts with a white waistband and tugged them on. He finished drying off and rubbed the towel over his head before he tossed the towel over towards the bathroom, intending to hang it up once Sherlock was out of the tub. He had just pulled on a pair of sweats when he heard a knock at the door.  
  
Frowning, John went to answer and was surprised to see a dinner cart out in the hall, the red-head from before standing beside it with a wide smile. "We finished your dinner sir, your boyfriend called down saying you'd be needing it."  
  
John was in _no_ mood to deal with these accusations, not in the least, and his nostrils flared spectacularly, his chin sliding forward in a show of utter mulishness. How could he ever be a boyfriend to someone like Sherlock bloody Holmes, he was a liar and emotionally unattached! "He is _not my bloody boyfriend_!!" He clenched his fists and they shook at his sides, blue eyes blazing. The girl squeaked and turned a dark red, shocked by his display of anger.  
  
"J-Just return the-...the cart out into...t-the hall when you are finished." She gasped, her expression turning to stone and glaring at him before she whirled around and stomped back down the hallway. John sagged against the doorjamb, rubbing his hands over his face and groaning. This case was going to be a long, insufferable one.  
  
Begrudgingly, for he was hungry, he wheeled the cart into their room and shut the door with his foot, moving back to his duffel to pull on a regular white T-shirt. He wasn't comfortable just walking around half naked, even with just trousers on, for he had a lot of scars, little ones and old wounds aside from the bullet wound in his shoulder. It made him self-conscious.  
  
Looking up from dropping his duffel beside the side of the bed he was claiming, John noticed the little white vase with the roses and baby’s-breath in it in the center of the dinner cart. His scowl deepened, "Perfect, just _bloody perfect._ How blood romantic." He scoffed, stomping over to yank the flowers out of the vase, cutting his fingers on the thorns of the rose as he snapped their stems and dropped the whole lot into the bin beside the small desk in the room. He stared down into the bin, feeling a hallow ache in his chest. "Maybe if you just weren't such a sod all the time..." He muttered to himself, pulling a thorn out of his thumb with a wince, dropping it into the bin and turning back to the cart. It was laid with two bowls of a hearty meat stew, some biscuits, and some Irish potatoes, coupled with two glasses of the local ale. John grimaced at the beverage, for it was the last thing Sherlock needed and he could do without it. He picked up both glasses and glanced at the window. He couldn't just...dump it out there. Probably kill an entire spot of vegetation by morning...but what else could he do with them? He could...drink them both himself. But then he'd be a few sheets to the wind by the time Sherlock got out of the bath. "Well this is a bit of not good..." He huffed.

 

~ * ~

 

Despite all that, Sherlock was now jumping around the room making a fool out of himself. As soon as John turned away, Sherlock grabbed his pajama pants from the bed and tossed them over his shoulder before heading back to the bathroom. He hummed softly, shutting the door behind him. As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock went over to the tub and took out the plug. The drugged up expression was now completely gone only to be replaced with an emotionless front. As the water was draining, he turned to the mirror and began taking off his shirt. His ice cold eyes stared at the reflection of the ones in the mirror as he did so. There was no color on his face at all. There was a reflection of a man who was as pale as a ghost and unstable as one as well. A forced smile took form on his face but it honestly looked as unnatural as Mrs. Hudson’s new hair color. He erased the smile once again, trying it again and again until he found one that was more believable. Sherlock would have to see John after this…He might as well make sure he was faking it good this time around.  
  
Sherlock turned from the mirror, now shirtless, and put the plug back in the tub. He began filling it with ice cold water, giving him time to slip off his pants while waiting for the tub to fill. Once it was almost filled to the brim, he shut off the water and slipped down into the freezing cold water. Tingling pain went up his legs and followed all the way up his chest as he sunk down. Sherlock let out a forced breath as he sat down, the water coming up to his neck. This was the shortest time it took for him to snap out of the aftermath of a persistent nightmare. Though it was most likely due to John being here when he had awoken from it. His face was the constant reminder that he was alive after all. Everything was…okay when John was around. He was back with his old friend and things weren’t like it used to be but Sherlock would pick this life time and time again, even with all it’s scars.  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath before he forced his head under the water. He stayed there, his hair spreading out over the surface, his brown hair like a dark cloud. He opened his cold eyes, the freezing water embracing his body with daggers. There he stayed for about two minutes before he came back up for air, breathing deeply. The icy water dripped from his soaking wet hair and back into the tub. Sherlock leaned back, resting his head on the curved edge of the tub while staring up at the ceiling. He could hear John yelling a phrase that had an odd effect on him. No doubt the red head had brought their food to the room and said something to trigger John’s ire. Yet that comment John yelled had a strange feeling lingering in his chest. When Sherlock could not pin point it, he dunked himself back into the freezing cold water for another two minutes to kill it instead.  
  
The freezing water purged the strange and unfamiliar emotion from his mind and when he came back up the water was dripping down his face and past his parted lips. He let out another deep breath, the cold water already starting to numb his body. Usually in this situation, Sherlock would have already pulled out his _stash_ and he would be already stoned out of his mind. Despite the constant urge to do so, he refused. Sherlock was not traveling alone anymore with no one at his side. Now he had John and no matter how much the nightmare tortured him, he was refusing to use the equipment in his stash. John hated it when he used it. That face of disappointment…that was something he did not want to experience again for a long, long while. Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, grabbing the bottles of shampoo and soap off the ledge of the tub and cleaning the sweat out of his hair and off his rail thin body.  
  
After a good half hour of letting all the nerves under his flesh go numb, Sherlock finally got out of the tub. He was soaking wet, all the water dripping all over the floor without a mat to catch it. He unplugged the drain and let all the cold water empty from the bathtub while he turned back to the mirror and stared at his reflection again. There was a small amount of color to his face now. However, his eyes were still haunted by the dark circles underneath them. A sigh escaped his chapped lips, paler from the icy water, his blank gaze sliding down over his chest. His fingers ran across his boney rib change, frowning at his own physical shape. John, was right, he did look terrible. Sherlock turned away from the mirror, throwing the towel onto the floor after drying his body off. He threw down some more to soak up the water and eventually, after standing there naked for a few minutes, he slipped on his pajama bottoms. Sherlock turned back to the door, his fingers grasping the knob but not manipulating it.

  
Sherlock could either pretend to still be high or just go back in the room like nothing had even happened. John had clearly figured out that he not using drugs right now. There was no point to keep on that front. So, he turned the knob and walked back into the room without saying a word. He had forgotten a shirt so he went over to the bed, grabbing his bag and pulling out a plain gray t-shirt. Sherlock slipped it over his head, his ribcage sticking out over his flat stomach as he did so. He let out a yawn, ignoring John’s presence until now. “Stop yelling at the prostitute from downstairs.” He spoke emotionlessly to John without making any eye contact. He wasn’t lying, the girl was a prostitute. Sherlock grabbed one of the bowls of the stew before taking a seat in one of the chairs by the flickering fireplace. Without saying much more he began to eat from his bowl, the warmth of the food seeping through the ceramic of the china and into his cold palm.

 

~ * ~

 

John had finished his stew a while after Sherlock had gone into the bathroom to clean up, nibbling on a biscuit and pulling out his book from the train, sitting in front of the fireplace in one of the over-sized, swing-backed chairs. He had left most of the Irish potatoes under their coverings since there had been potatoes in the stew; potatoes seemed to be an Irish staple. In the end, he had dumped out the ale, deciding it would be better to kill a rosebush or two rather than place a temptation out for Sherlock to peruse. When he heard the bathroom door open, he refused to look up at first, ignoring Sherlock, still a little miffed about how they were always assumed to be a couple and how Sherlock never threw it back in their faces with his logic of how they _weren't_ one? But then...what did that say about logic? Maybe Sherlock just didn't care...or maybe there was no outward proof that they weren't? But why the hell did people have to assume?  
  
Glowering at the page, he reread the same sentence three or four times before he gave it up, swinging his head round to see Sherlock tugging on a sleep shirt. He winced inwardly at the display, the ribcage encased in a thin layer of skin, hardly any fat beneath, and he could only assume that Sherlock's body had started to eat away at muscle in order to stay alive when he had been starving himself...or forgetting to eat, whichever was the case. John had been correct in believing he could see every notched vertebrae in Sherlock's spine for it was true, from the top of the Thoracic curve to the very top of the lumbar series where the spine dipped into the lower back. The pelvis' shape was painfully visible through the curve of the hipbones and the indentations to either side of the spine, indicating the sacrum above the tailbone. John closed his book and dropped it onto the floor by his chair, leaning over his knees and rubbing his eyes, stifling a yawn. It was late by now, well after eleven o'clock, and John wasn't used to staying up late any longer. He either fell asleep to crap telly, or lying in bed with a book.  
  
As Sherlock retrieved his meal from under the warming cloche, John's blue eyes swept the taller man's face for any clues as to his earlier behavior, but he came up blank, aside from the paleness of the skin and the...blue of his lips? John frowned, "Are you alright?" He muttered, standing to extract an extra blanket from the closet, bringing it back to the chair he'd been in and wrapping the blanket around him like a shawl before sitting. "You can have the bed." He murmured, bracing his elbow against the armrest of the chair and letting his chin fall into his open hand. "I suppose," John said around a yawn, "We should check out the dingy castle first thing...maybe talk to some locals. Run down round the local pub, hear the talk..." He was familiar with Sherlock's old methods and he remembered how Sherlock had stressed how any valuable gossip flowed through the veins of a local bar. Blue eyes drooped heavily, a deep sigh expanding John's chest for a moment. He could already feel a twinge in his back starting...

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock ate the stew slowly while ignoring his stomachs begs. He leaned back in the chair, eating another spoonful before glancing back over to John. His eyes traveled back and forth between the table and John and finally toward the window. ”You dumped the ale. Why did you dump the ale? This stew is extremely salty. Are you trying to dehydrate me? That isn’t how a doctor is supposed to be treating their patients, is it?” Sherlock rolled the spoon in his hand while he spoke. His soaking wet hair still dripping down his neck and the sides of his face. The shirt he just put on was already starting to get soaked.  
  
After eating about half of the contents of the bowl, he placed the stew back down on the cart and grabbed a biscuit. He bit off a piece of it while his eyes followed John’s movements. The doctor was paying more and more attention to Sherlock’s body. He knew that he needed to put some more weight on his bones. It was quite clear to him when his body was screaming at him in hunger. If he went up against Moran in this condition, he might as well just give Moran a target to put on his body. Yet he did not enjoy watching John try to figure him out. It would end up giving him a headache. “My condition should be the least of your concerns at the moment. Right now, you should be figuring out how you are going to run back and have dinner with Lestrade this week to help him find my stash. Because god only knows how that man became an inspector if he cannot find one simple stash. Besides, he has had another fight with his wife; he is going to need some mental support.” He spoke in between bites of the biscuit. He spoke a tad slower than usual; he wanted to make sure these words hit John. The last thing he wanted was to wake up to John attaching an I.V. to his arm in the middle of the night. Might as well distract his mind with something he can wonder about till the morning. Sherlock made a note to himself not to get dressed around John anymore, at least not until his body was back to a better physical shape. On the other hand, this would take a while, knowing full well he did not attend to eat while they stayed in the castle.  
  
Once Sherlock got bored of the biscuit, he threw the rest of it on the cart. Irish meals were dull yet hearty. Too much of it would make him sick, considering this is the first time he actually eaten a meal in a few weeks. A shiver ran down his spine as the water in his hair dripped down the back of his shirt. However, his face remained set in the same impassive expression while he leaned back in the chair, watching as John sat down again after depositing a blanket over his shoulders. “Why would I need a bed that big John? I am not inviting the prostitute up here to keep my company. I have company. The bed could fit us and at least one other person. However, the red head is not allowed in the bed, understand?” Sherlock stood up quickly and walked to the bathroom, grabbing another towel and rubbing it against his dark wet hair. He stepped back out into the bedroom as he continued to dry his hair and said, “It’s not like we are gay John. Just sleep in the bed. Your back must be already hurting you. If you’re so embarrassed to sleep in the same bed with me than I will take the chair myself.” He flopped down onto the bed, sitting up on his elbows part way. “I promise not to touch you.” He batted his eye lashes teasingly, adding a slight feminine tone to his voice, the same he’d used on the phone with the prostitute. “It’s not like we have any reputation to lose. _Everyone_ in this inn already thinks we are gay.” He continued to dry his hair before tossing the wet towel onto the floor, pulling the blanket from his shoulders to drop onto the end of the bed.  
  
”One step at a time, John. Once we get there, we will go visit the local pub and where else that looks suspicious. There is a possibility that I will be able to encounter someone I did not question on my first visit. However, that is when we get there; right now your back is already starting to ache. So, with the utmost respect, get your arse in this bed.”

 

~ * ~

 

John frowned when Sherlock complained about the ale, "Alcohol is the last thing you need Sherlock," He grumbled, pushing him to his feet and picking up the empty glasses. He rinsed them out in the bathroom and filled them with water, taking one to Sherlock at the window, "Drink this instead, it's better for you." He muttered, sipping on his own.  
  
"Oh leave off it Sherlock," John rolled his eyes as he sat back down, "you're starting to sound jealous. Besides, it would be much easier and sane of you to simply give me the stash instead of hiding it like a child." He muttered, watching his old friend pace over to the bed. Rising with a weary sigh, he took the cart and opened the hallway door, pushing it out into the hall as he had been instructed to by the supposed 'prostitute.' He shook his head on a short, ridiculous laugh, "Sherlock, even if I was to share that bed with you, do you really think I'd want to invite a woman in with me too? That would be a nightmare." He closed the door behind himself.  He motioned to the two chairs, "It's the chairs, the floor, or the bed. Or nothing." He walked over to his claimed chair, fully intending to sit and forget about the subject, but of course, Sherlock had to press it.  
  
"Oh lovely, so lets give them more reason to talk." John glowered at him, his face devoid of any kind of amusement. "You know, the way you never protest when someone just assumes like an arse makes me think you don't mind people thinking we're a gay couple." He huffed, annoyed, his arms spread from his sides in question. "I'm not worried about you touching me, I'm more worried about you turning it into some sort of experiment." Taking the rejected blanket from the end of the bed, he went to wrap it around himself instead. Sherlock snapped at him a little and he pursed his lips, knowing that he was at least right about his back, he didn't know if he could stand a full night in this chair, and if they were sleeping on the ground the next night, possibly in that castle, John really knew he'd be a cripple by the time they got back to London. So with a heavy, bone-weary sigh, he threw down his blanket and moved over to the light switches by the door. If he was going to be getting into a bed with Sherlock, he didn't want to have to see his face when he did. Sherlock could be a smug bastard...  
  
Turning the lights out, he stalked across the room, his movements only lit by the dimming fire stored up in the fireplace. Tossing back the sheets on the other side of the bed, John sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress. "If you breathe a word of this to anybody, even as a joke...I'll wait until you have an extremely important experiment going on your kitchen table and then I'll ruin it before you finish." He huffed, laying down and tugging the sheets over himself, turning his back on Sherlock. His heart was hammering for some reason and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and willing it to slow down. If he were to reach out, he would have bumped against Sherlock and figured out he was colder than an iceberg from his bath, but he kept his arms firmly folded across his chest. He didn't want to wonder why Sherlock had been so adamant about getting him into this bed...it wasn't like he actually cared about his wellbeing on a regular basis anyhow...why now? He told himself it was a minor adjustment to an attitude usually detached, and figured Sherlock only wanted him to sleep better in case he had to go running off after some murderer any time soon.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock chugged the glass of water, setting it beside the bed. “I am not jealous of Lestrade. How could I be jealous of someone who does not have my capabilities of reasoning? That is similar to asking if a person is jealous of a flea. The only reason they would be jealous is due to the simplicity of a flea’s mind. Yet, I do not even envy that. Simplicity is to boring.” He rolled his eyes, lifting up the sheets of the bed before sitting back down with them draped across his legs. ”Telling you where my stash is or simply giving it to you would not prove the point. It is mine. If you wish to find it, use my methods of deduction. If you cannot find it, you are simply not capable.” Sherlock ran his fingers back through his hair. It was starting to dry. It was safe to now lie in the bed without soaking the pillows. “Fine! I will sleep in the tub if it makes you more comfortable.”  
  
Sherlock was about to get up, waiting for a sign that John was going to sleep in the bed. Once John threw down his blanket, a huge grin crossed his face. Well, at least now the doctor would not be struggling in pain tomorrow. After all, tomorrow was going to be a long day. The last thing he wanted was to have his friend having a hard time. Sherlock sat back comfortably, laying down and stretching out his legs under the sheets. “If you were to invite a woman, I would experiment by trying to figure out what makes the act of ‘sex’ so pleasurable. Really, John, I will have to put a camera in your room to figure this out. Why is it so pleasurable? So many diseases come from it yet that’s all people do.” He teased, resting his head on the soft pillows. This was the first time Sherlock had attempted to sleep in a bed for a long time. The warmth and softness of the fabrics felt odd.  
  
Sherlock rolled onto his back letting out a soft groan as John turned off the lights. “John if you parked in the handicapped parking and a cop saw you. If they saw your cane they might let it go, why? Because they use faulty logic to _assume_ you are handicap. You are gaining an advantage by this, are you not? Why would you correct this moronic cop’s actions? This is the same for this case. The red head’s pointless use of her non-existing logic gave us an advantage card. I was able to play this card to get us some dinner way after the kitchen was closed.” Sherlock muttered the last bit while letting out a yawn. It was true; Sherlock did not correct most people when they assumed they were gay. What was the point to correct their stupidity? The young detective closed his eyes, feeling the weight of John’s body being added to the bed.  
  
“Why would I tell anyone? There is nothing to gain by telling Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock rolled onto his side, turning away from John. There was a strange emotion trying to escape his body, however, the male could not recognize this feeling. For some reason, whenever he was with John, he seemed to be experiencing emotions that he was not used to. “You wouldn’t dare disturb any of my experiments. If you do…there will be a camera put in your room to _observe_ your sexual activities.” A small smile crossed his pale lips. Well, at least John would feel better in the morning since he wasn’t sleeping in that overstuffed chair.

 

~ * ~

 

John felt himself color a little when Sherlock brought up the subject of sex. Leave it to Sherlock to make such a natural thing sound abhorrent and embarrassing. John rolled over slightly, peering through the gloom pierced by the low glow from the fire at his friend, "Wait...you can't 'figure it out'...?" He couldn't say he was too surprised, after all, Sherlock was so detached from any sort of physical feeling or emotion directed towards him, why would he feel the need or the ability to maintain a relationship long enough to get a woman into bed if he seemingly had no interest? Or a man...now that he thought about it, best not to assume. Sherlock was nearly completely asexual as far as he had observed. He could talk about the subject, but because of his personality, it was painful to hear him do so. John was able to put two and two together and come up with one. Sherlock was a virgin. "You're a virgin..." John said, his voice deadpan, strictly factual. He was _not_ going to get into a discussion of the birds an the bees with Sherlock, especially at this late hour. That was the last thing he ever wanted. He was sure Sherlock had plenty of opportunity, given the amount of women who fawned over him terribly. But he obviously had no interest aside from the study of the act. "Just watch porn, don't go sticking a camera in my flat." He huffed, rolling away again, punching his pillow to make it more comfortable before laying his head down.  
  
"So you would gratefully tell...anyone at all...that we're a couple, if it gets you something you want. Lovely, throw me under the bus why don't you, make me look like a complete arse." He hissed in the gloom, glowering at the closet across from him. "I wish you'd use some other form of logic to get what you want..." He muttered. It pained him that Sherlock would simply use it as an advantage...when something like that was viewed so much more seriously. It was like Sherlock was using it as a cover story, something entirely fake and unimportant enough to exploit. John didn't know why, but it burned him to think of it that way. They were friends and used to be flatmates, and sometimes, he was just damn tired of being used...  
  
Before John could censor his words, they flew out of his mouth in a shot of rebuttal, "You won't be observing much sexual activity there anyhow, go ahead." He bit his tongue, a sigh swaying his shoulders. Why had he just done that...it was true though. John hadn't really had a girlfriend for a while now. The first few months had been hard, and he had found himself seeking some sort of comfort in the opposite sex for the first year or so, but in the last sixteen or so months, he had been rather celibate and alone. His words over Sherlock's fake grave came back to him, _'I was so alone...'_ Closing his eyes, he pursed his lips tightly and wedged his arm under his pillow.  
  
That ache, which had dulled over the years, returned now like an old friend. "Sherlock..." There was a pause as he gathered the courage to ask, "You...told everyone how you did it." He turned over onto his back, throwing an arm over his head across his pillow. "But you never told us why." He looked sidelong at his friend's back, the slope of his neck; the damp head nestled on a pillow. "Moriarty was dead when you jumped...what did he have over you...that could cross over after his death? Was it drugs...?" John frowned, still unable to piece together those parts of a puzzle gone long untouched. "Some sort of blackmail or extortion...that would only stop if you...'killed yourself'?" He hated that phrase, hated it a lot in fact.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock kept his back to John for a moment before rolling back over to face him when John turned over as well. His gaze shifted to John in the darkness as he brought up the fact that he could not figure out sex. Well, it was true and he admitted it moments before, there was no point in denying it. Sherlock could not understand the point of sex. To reproduce? Then again, that was not the point of most of the sex people _enjoyed_. Truthfully, Sherlock…well, he had never touched himself in a way most men commonly did in their early teenage years. While other children when he had been sixteen masturbated to pictures of each other’s moms, Sherlock was reading and gaining as much knowledge as he could about more important things. Other teenagers jerked off and tried to get girls naked, while Sherlock sat at home and mastered chemistry. Mycroft had teased him plenty while growing up. His older brother had always been more experienced than Sherlock in that field. Despite that, when John actually said the word _’virgin’_ , it had an entirely different effect. A deep crimson blush crossed his sharp cheek bones. Feeling the warmth spread across his face, he rolled and faced away from John once more.  
  
”Thanks to your laptop, I have seen porn before…They do the strangest things John. Especially in the ones you have watched. I will never understand the point of _fisting_. Really? Why shove your hand up the woman’s vagina? It makes no sense. Doesn’t that have to hurt? Yet the women look like they are loving it. Masochistic woman…maybe that is why Lestrade’s wife is so cranky. Maybe he tried _fisting_ her.” He forced a yawn as if he was bored at the topic at hand. Sherlock pulled up the blanket over his head, the blush still lingering on his face. He stayed quiet for a few minutes until John spoke. Quickly he tugged the sheet back down, “I never told anyone we were gay. They moronically _assume_ so with their unexercised minds. Do not blame me for their illogical brains. If you want to rule out all possibility of morons assuming so, then you should avoid getting defensive about the topic.” He snapped back quickly before tugging the sheet back over his head.  
  
Sherlock ignored John’s next comment about there being not much to observe. He knew John hadn’t been dating lately; he was trying to avoid the thought actually, knowing full well it was likely his fault. The detective already felt guilty enough for leaving John alone for those long three years. The more his thoughts lingered on it, the worse he felt.  
  
Sherlock paused, hearing the doctor call his name. ”Hmm?” He mumbled back the sound and listened to the rest of John’s words. His friend had proved to be quite persistent in getting this information out of him. Sherlock honestly did not want to tell him the real reason why he’d faked his death. Slowly he pulled the blanket off his head and listened quietly to John’s words. It was clear to him that the doctor had been trying to figure this out himself with limited data. Sherlock knew he should tell John the truth to ease the other man’s mind. But if he did John would not look at him the same way ever again, and he wasn’t certain if he could handle that. So, Sherlock stared into the darkness, his icy eyes catching a glimpse of the flickering flames in the fireplace as they were dying out. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. ”I do not want to talk about this now…but you are going to keep asking me until I tell you. So, for your ears and yours alone, it was blackmail. That is it, if I did not jump, his men would use what they had against me. Leave it at that.” Sherlock once again pulled the blanket over his head. After a few minutes of finding he could not even close his eyes, he whispered back in a soft voice. ”I did not fake my own death for my benefit alone.” 

~ * ~

 

John glanced at Sherlock in time to see what he might have considered a blush, but in the dim light of the dying fire, it was hard to tell and he would rather not dwell on the image of a blushing Sherlock. It was just...well, it was just too much. John couldn't help but blush himself when Sherlock started asking the pertinent questions. God why...there was no God and if there was he had left John a long time ago. Rubbing his hands over his face John stared up at the ceiling and shook his head slowly, having no idea how to even make a reply to those kinds of questions. Of course Sherlock had to latch onto the one obscure porn video he had watched ages ago. All he had to say, in a bland and matter of fact tone was: "A fist is bigger than a cock. Sometimes bigger is better." He knew more of the mechanics and specifics of the matter, being a doctor, but he wasn't going to explain them to Sherlock because that would be crossing some sort of line in John’s head.  
  
"If I don't get defensive about the topic Sherlock, they'll just assume even faster that it's true..." He sighed, looking over at Sherlock's lump of a head under the covers. Why was he hiding...? When he called his friend's name however, he rose up from under the sheets, looking...uncomfortable? _Sherlock, uncomfortable?...What a novel idea_. John turned over, finding he was kind of enjoying the reluctance in his usually well-spoken friend. He faced Sherlock, but the brunette didn't look at him as he spoke. So it was as he had thought...blackmail. John felt his body run cold at the very thought of the word ‘blackmail’.  It had to have been something big enough to make Sherlock take the fall and disappear for three years, living a life on the run while he disbanded the members of Moriarty’s criminal ring. It had to be something involving life or death, it had to be. Because  Sherlock didn't care what the media or anybody else thought about him, he probably didn't even care what John or Mrs. Hudson thought of him, so it couldn't be something as silly as drugs because he had gone to rehab many a time over that. His suspicions were confirmed when a small, soft voice sounded from under the blankets in a muffled tone. Not for his benefit alone...  
  
John felt something clench in his chest. Sherlock cared to some degree about the people around him, he might play the arrogant asshole all the time, but he knew Sherlock hardly wished harm on anyone, even if he said so at times. He wasn't a monster, John would give him that. "Well..." John reached out and laid his hand against a sheeted shoulder of his friend, giving it a slight squeeze before he turned onto his back again and adjusted the blankets over his chest. "The lunatic is dead so...everybody's safe in the end." John murmured, closing his eyes. In his head, he made a mental list of all the people Sherlock knew and associated with to his knowledge. There was Mycroft...but he doubted he'd jump solely for his brother, and besides; Mycroft had known and probably helped organize the entire fake fall. There was Lestrade. Without him Sherlock would hardly be able to get away with all the case files he stole on a regular basis. There was Anderson and Donovan, but they were more like acquaintances and hardly worthy in Sherlock's mind to leap off a building for, he was sure of that opinion at least. Molly had helped him with the fall...so she was out. There was 'that woman' that Sherlock referred to every so often, but as far as John knew she was dead. That left...Mrs. Hudson, himself, and possibly Lestrade. John couldn't remember being followed to Bart's that horrible day, but then again he had been too hell-bent on his quest to get there and for all he knew; he could have been some sort of target. Mrs. Hudson had been back at the flat having some things repaired by a workman if he remembered correctly...  
  
John felt his eyes grow sore in the dark and he closed them again, unable to fully comprehend the vast web of what Moriarty had used against Sherlock. If he and Mrs. Hudson had been in any kind of danger...had Sherlock jumped for that? There was no way of telling, but the huddled figure on the other side of the bed could suggest enough. John licked his lips, about to speak...but the words died on his tongue. What could he say? Thanks for playing dead for Mrs. Hudson and I? He didn't even know if he had drawn the right conclusions. He wasn't going to make an arse of himself only to give Sherlock the chance to throw it back in his face like it was a joke or play it off as worthless _sentiment_. Laying silently on his side of the bed, John decided to sleep and tried to blank his mind, but it was well into early morning before he could finally achieved peace and slumber.  
  
It was a little after six in the morning when John found some kind of awareness prickling in the back of his mind again. He found himself on his right side and something was tickling his nose annoyingly. John scrunched his nose up and drew in a long, deep breath, debating on whether to get up into the chilly room to build a morning fire or stay in the warmth of the sheets and the reassuring weight against his body he found he could get used to. The weight of... John squinted in the dim light filtering in through drawn gauzy curtains. There was a limp arm over his side and a leg pushed between his own, wedging him in place perfectly. There was also the steady rise and fall of shoulders beneath his arm which was curled around the thin back of his friend. John almost tensed up, his mind going blank as he stared across the bed at the opposing wall behind Sherlock. Warm breath fanned against the front of his sleep shirt and he angled his head down into the mess of curls that had dried all springy in the night. He had the overwhelming urge to nuzzle them but refrained, wondering how he could extract himself from this situation without waking his friend, who no doubt needed the sleep more than he did.  
  
John debated for a long while and when he looked at the clock on the beside, he noticed he had been lying awake with Sherlock cuddled in his arms for nearly ten minutes which he had debated his issue. Well, it was either stay or get up, so John chose the latter. Carefully, John shifted his leg back, sliding it away from Sherlock's which had found a place between his knees. He reached for the sheet, shifting it back slightly and trying to reach behind himself for a wrist or an elbow that he could get a hold of to drag Sherlock’s limp arm from over his side. As he maneuvered Sherlock's arm up off of his waist, John tried to roll away but Sherlock was leaning so heavily into his chest that he shifted forward with him and John found himself laying on his back with a curly head heavy on the center of his chest and holding Sherlock's arm out and above them like some sort of Union Jack on a stick. He heaved a long sigh and dropped Sherlock’s arm back to where it had been across his middle. "Sherlock..." His voice was a little rough from sleep and he rubbed his eyes, feeling a little guilty that he was going to wake his sleep-deprived friend. But this was getting a little too...close to some boundaries for John. He wasn't going to admit anything, he was just going to forget about this and hope it never happened again so he could ignore these odd little feelings making his skin crawl and prickle.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly when John’s hand gripped his shoulder. Once his arm pulled away, he tried to pull the blanket over his head even higher. He had given John enough information for him to figure it out on his own if he really tried to and Sherlock really did not want to tell him that he had done it to save his life. John would end up looking at him as if he was some kind of hero, not an emotionless machine like he was supposed to. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, ignoring any sound the older male on the other side of the bed might make. He even pretended to make a yawn, hoping John would think he was asleep. However, it did not take much longer for the detective to actually fall asleep. The warm meal and the feel of the fabrics had tempted him into the realm of the unconscious. Yet these weren’t the only reasons sleep came easy for him tonight. For the past three years, Sherlock could not bring himself to sleep without a struggle, without wondering if someone was going to try and kill him while he was vulnerable. Now he was no longer alone, now he had John.  
  
Fortunately, Sherlock did not experience any nightmares or dreams during the night. He did wake up for a moment however and his body had been as cold as ice. He was drifting off again, not fully awake and functioning normally when he came up with a remedy for his chill. So somewhere between being awake and asleep, in his pathetic attempt to gain more warmth, Sherlock pushed his body up against the warmest thing he could find in the bed, which happened to be the good doctor. Unknowingly, Sherlock curled up against his friend, pressing against the older male for warmth and invading every warm spot he could locate with his legs, hands, and face. Once he had squeezed his leg between the two heated pillows which just so happened to be John’s legs, he soon relaxed again and fell back into the depths of sleep, none the wiser.  
  
This was the most Sherlock had ever slept in the past three years. Well to be exact, this was the best he ever slept. Also, the first time he hadn’t had to jump awake with a gun in hand. Instead, he had his face nuzzled against something so warm and relaxing and he felt completely safe. His breath was stable and slow in sleep, no fear or urgency leaking into his consciousness and it was perfect. Sherlock could feel some slight movements underneath him but he did not bother to open his eyes to find out what it was, nor did he really want to know. He just wanted to have this safe and warm feeling stay with him forever and if he could trade everything he owned for this feeling than he would in a heartbeat. There was not a thought in his head that could make him move…well that’s what he thought at first. Sherlock drew as close to the complimentary warmth of whatever he was clinging to as he could and as it started to move away, Sherlock groaned and nuzzled his face against the fabric of what was actually John’s shirt. As his leg was exposed by the cocooning warmth of John’s legs shifting away, he closed his eyes tightly and clung to his source of warmth to keep it still and docile as it had been before. In reality, he was clinging to John’s shirt for dear life. In an attempt to make up for the loss of John’s legs, he raised one of his own and wrapped it around the source of his safety his leg now wrapped around John’s two.  
  
Sherlock let out another groan as John rolled onto his back. A stupid smile crossed his face as the _evil_ destroyer if his warm cocoon dropped his limp arm and he could retract it back into the heat and safety. However, his satisfaction did not last long because he soon heard John’s voice calling his name. It was strange at first, since the voice was coming directly from what he’d dubbed his ‘cocoon of warmth’. Sherlock froze, his body tensing for a moment before he dared to open his eyes. There he lay, on top of John and clinging to him like one of those heroines from the shows John watched. Sherlock stared up at John with a carefully blank expression, a shade of pink seeping into his cheeks. The only thing that broke Sherlock out of his dazed state was the sound of their door opening. Sherlock’s eyes widened, immediately feeling extremely self-conscience of his position. He could hear a gasp from the red headed prostitute who was standing at the door with a cart full of their breakfast. As soon what he was seeing fully processed, Sherlock lifted his sleepy body off of John while trying to shoot off of the bed and away from his companion at the same time. Didn’t anybody knock anymore these days?  
  
If Sherlock was more awake, he would have calculated the chances of falling straight on his face as he flailed towards the edge of the bed. The bed was fairly high up off the floor and Sherlock pushed himself away from John while he tried to pull his right leg out of the blankets it was tangled in. Sherlock was already leaning too much of his weight off the side of the bed which caused the detective to go sliding off the mattress with nearly all the sheets and blankets in tow wrapped around his form. He landed with a loud thud and the red head let out another squeak and a gasp. There was silence for a moment before there was a rustling sound from the mass of sheets on the floor and Sherlock slowly rose from the pile, stumbling forward like a drunken man. His dark curly locks were standing up in odd cowlicks and pointing in every which direction while his pants were falling down and his shirt was half way up his torso, showing off his scrawny chest.  
  
The red head tried to speak but Sherlock pulled up his pants and tripped his way over to her, raising his hand as if this wasn’t his first clumsy moment in his usually graceful life. ”No…I am okay! Just get out and shut up.” Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulder and tossed her out of the room. The girl turned around, about to say something else but Sherlock slammed the door in her face. “We are fine! Leave!” He yelled back, holding the door shut for a moment before he heard her walking away. Sherlock let out a great sigh and glanced back at John, “We never speak of this. We will leave aft-” Sherlock began walking forward as he spoke and his words were cut off when his unyielding foot slipped on the sheets on the floor, managing to catch himself this time on one of the chairs. Brushing himself off like nothing had happened, Sherlock finished his comment, “We will leave for the castle once we are done with breakfast.”

 

~ * ~

 

John felt Sherlock stir over him and he grunted and winced as a knee pressed down against his crotch, trying to shift his hips so it wouldn't be such a firm pressure. "Sherlock." He called his friend's name again, this time with a hint of annoyance in his tone. He felt the body draped over him tense this time and he braced himself for whatever reaction he'd be getting, but he wasn't expecting what he got. Sherlock turned his head and raised sleepy eyes to his face, realization ringing true in his grey hues. He was pretty sure he was blushing just as much as Sherlock was. They stared at each other like two fish but the sound of their room door opening from the hallway made them both start, but there wasn't much John could do being on the bottom of their two man pile. Sherlock, however, leapt like he was on hot coals. John felt all the wind get knocked out of him as sharp, pointy limbs scrambled off him, stabbing him in sensitive places. He rolled onto his side, an arm over his stomach and coughed as his insides slowly returned to their places.  
  
Sherlock was scrambling about, twisting himself in the sheets trying to get away from John and he launched himself like a sky-diver off the edge of the bed. John made a grab for him, trying to catch him before he fell, but he missed terribly. There was a moment of floundering, and then Sherlock was up and yelling at the red-head. John was sitting up, his knees drawn up towards his chest, crossing his arms over them and laying his head down, groaning. How the _hell_ did she get in anyway, they hadn't bid her to come in, why did she think she owned the place enough to intrude on their privacy? John would be writing a scathing review of the Aberdeen Lodge, he was sure.  
  
Sherlock's springy limbs were still akimbo all over the place as he charged the red-head across the room and shoved her out into the hall. When the door closed, he looked up to meet his friend's face, meeting one flushed face with another. "Agreed." He murmured, turning and slipping his feet down onto the floor, hanging his head and taking a deep breath. He didn't have any appetite now, not after such a rude awakening. "Right..." He murmured when breakfast was mentioned and he got up on unsteady feet and wobbled over to the bathroom, shutting himself inside only to remember his razor was out in his kit. He made an embarrassing trek back out to his bag to retrieve it, glancing at Sherlock with a rueful expression, "Forgot..." He murmured, lifting his razor up as explanation and fleeing for the bathroom again, closing the door and leaning into it as it shut. If that was the most awkward moment in his life, he would be grateful. He had to wait for his hands to stop shaking awkwardly before he could shave and when he had finished, he went out into the bedroom to collect some clothes, returning to the bathroom to put them on so Sherlock wouldn't have to watch him change.  
  
When he returned once again, John looked at the breakfast laid out over the cart and selected a pancake, putting peanut butter and strawberry jam on it before he folded it up and ate it like a taco, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a percolator on the cart. He put some cream in it but left out the sugar of course, drinking the scalding liquid by the window and hoping it would burn out the words that kept wanting to be said that would only make a bad situation worse. Finally, he couldn't take the tension any longer and muttered, "Could've been worse....you could've had your dick out, mate." He snorted, licking his fingers that had jam on them.

 

~ * ~

 

The odd blush lingered on his face long after the red head left the room. He let out a sigh, glancing back at John before he ran into the bathroom in order to escape. Things were going to be rather awkward for a while between the two of them. _Note to self: no sleeping in a bed with John ever again._ Sherlock was about to go into his bag when John came back out of the bathroom, having forgotten his razor. A deeper blush shadowed his features as his eyes fell onto the doctor’s body. He was wearing clothing but now that Sherlock had been pressed against that body, he could swear he knew how every line of it felt now. Once John was back in the bathroom, he went over to the dresser with the mirror and examined his still blushing cheeks with annoyance. He glared at his own rebellious flesh and muttered, “Why the hell are you still embarrassed?” Sherlock lifted his hand up and slapped his own face with a bit of force. Shifting his gaze back up to the mirror he found the blush had disappeared but now there was a red mark on just one cheek. Idiot. He let out a sigh, turning away from the mirror and staring straight at the bed. The sheets were all over the floor like a crime scene and there was a clear spot on the bed sheet where they had been cuddling together throughout the night. Immediately, a darker blush took up the vacancy on his sharp cheeks and Sherlock took to pacing back and forth, irritated and confused with his own emotions.  
  
This was one of the very few times that anything had confused the detective this much. His heart was still racing at a solid rate and with more determination in his step; Sherlock went back over to the mirror and began slapping his cheeks around a few times until the blush was replaced with a redness that could be _mistaken_ for a blush, brilliant. With that, he peeled off his own shirt and threw his pants across the floor. Sherlock let out a deep breath, pulling out his bag from under the bed and pulling out a pair of black pants and sliding them on before he went searching through his bag for a shirt. His heart was still racing oddly enough and he was not scared or excited, maybe he was developing a heart condition. Yet…his eyes kept glancing up to the place on the bed where they had been laying a few minutes ago. Why had he been so comfortable sleeping wrapped up in John? When he was lying there with him, it was almost as if—Sherlock shook his head quickly to dispel the dangerous thought, his black Moroccan case falling out of his valise and onto the floor without him even noticing its displacement.  
  
He pulled out a forest green button down shirt and carefully slipped it on over his shoulders, buttoning it up before John came out of the bathroom to gather his clothing. Sherlock didn’t say anything, trying not to look at John to avoid the evil blush that kept following him around like an evil presence. Once John was back in the bathroom, he let out a huge sigh. He would have to figure out a way to look at John again without blushing from now on, they were flat mates after all and he couldn’t just banish the doctor because he couldn’t look at him. Sherlock pulled out a couple of nicotine patches and held the wrappers in his mouth while he tucked his shirt into the waistband of his slacks. Walking back over to the mirror he tamed the worst of the cowlicks with his hairbrush and returned it to its naturally wavy style. Once John was out of the bathroom for the last time, Sherlock took a seat in the breakfast chair and ripped the nicotine packages open, sticking both of the patches on his left arm and rolling the sleeve back down once he’d finished.  
  
He managed a smile at the doctor, pouring himself some coffee and adding some cream and sugar to it. John’s comment about his dick made him laugh and trying to sip some of the hot coffee at the same proved to be quite difficult, “At least we woke up when we did. If we woke up later, there wouldn’t have just been the two of us in that bed.” Sherlock had not one shred of doubt that the red head was actually going to suggest a threesome. He almost gagged on the coffee but he held it back and grabbed a piece of toast, taking a big bite out of it.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock was being fairly silent, but John was used to that, only this silence was now horribly pregnant. But it was a relief to hear his friend laugh, a rare and welcome occasion. It was one of those deep, rolling chuckles that John had always found added to whatever amusement was shared. "Oh God," John crowed at Sherlock's remark, speaking before he had a chance to think it through first, "I'd rather have sex with _you_ than a whore, Sherlock. I don't make a habit of chatting up prostitutes." He bit the inside of his cheek, his cup half way to his mouth. Why had he just said that? What an idiotic thing to say, and just like that the tension flew right back into the room, squeezing it round the middle until it became horribly oppressive again.  
  
Turning around, John was facing Sherlock's side of the bed and saw his open case on the floor beneath it, and beside it...a little black box. Frowning, he walked towards it, picking it up and letting suspicious blue eyes slide over to his friend. All embarrassment and awkwardness was immediately replaced with an annoyed and angered expression. "Sherlock." His voice was clipped and he flipped the box open, producing the syringe and vial of drugs, the seven percent solution of cocaine, as well as a vial of morphine, as he took it to read across a scratched label. "You're on a _case_ Sherlock. Why did you bring this? No," John shook his head and set his cup down on the bedside table, leveling a soldier’s stare at Sherlock where he sat in front of the breakfast cart. "You know what, I know already. This isn't the only one is it...you're so badly addicted to it that you've lost all sense of control over it. But you weren't high last night." John checked over the vial and found its seal still completely intact, no evidence of withdrawal. This was a new vial. "But you brought this...either because you think you might want to use, or to hide it from Lestrade and his crew, probably both." John flipped the wooden box shut with a clipped _snap_. He was breathing a little hard from the amount of anger in his system and he threw his free hand up in exasperation.  
  
"Do you have any idea what this stuff does to a brain like yours? You think it makes you feel better, but it's going to make you feel a lot worse later. This stuff Sherlock," he held up the box, "it'll make you _stupid._ " He dropped it onto the bed, launching into a full on doctor's rant. "It's a temporary fix to a much bigger issue, like putting a piece of gum over a leak in a dam, Sherlock!" He paced towards the cart but wheeled away again when he couldn't trust himself not to physically take Sherlock by the shoulders and rattle him about like a rag doll. "You're frying your brain and destroying your body with this bloody crap. You can't expect your brain to run at full power when you damage and destroy the body it sits in! Sorry Sherlock, but they haven't exactly created a robotic body that they can fit your brain into yet, when that happens, _I'll let you know!_ " He bellowed.  
  
Panting, John set his hands against his hips and glowered at Sherlock from where he stood, half way between the bed and the cart, shoulders tense. Slowly, the tension ebbed from his shoulders and he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Sherlock...I really want you to quit this, you managed it before...you can manage it again." He slowly walked himself to the cart and braced his hands against it, leaning down so their faces were level and just a foot apart. "But I refuse to play this hunting game...I _need_...you to tell me yourself that you want to quit this. I don't care if you do it for anyone else, but you have to do it for yourself. Because some day Sherlock that stuff will either kill you, or render you entirely useless, to where you might as well be dead. I know...because I've seen many drug cases while you were away." Blue eyes were soft, not pleading but bordering rather close to it.  
  
Turning, John picked up the box from the bed and set it on the breakfast cart in front of Sherlock again. For a moment it looked like he might challenge Sherlock on it again, maybe even demand he shoot up like a real drug-bum right in front of him. Why hide it when they both knew? But he took his hand off of it and let his pained eyes roam his friend's face. "Sherlock...I'd flush it myself, but you have to do it. Otherwise we'll just keep meeting in the middle and parting ways again. I have to know you're trying; I can't be the one forcing you because it'll only make you want to do it more out of spite. I know you well enough Sherlock, and you'd use just to rankle someone." He folded his arms across his chest, waiting and watching. "You are...so much better than this Sherlock, you're not a pathetic druggie who lives from hand out to hand out." Sitting down across from Sherlock, he reached out and set a hand against Sherlock's wrist, weighing it down to the table. "You're London's, the _world's_...only consulting detective. The best at what you do and bloody _amazing_ at what you can put your mind to." He didn't mind saying these words, they weren't exactly intimate, but his gaze was true and firm for he was determined to convince a stubborn mind of his sound logic. "I'd _hate_ to see you waste it." He shook his head once.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock choked on the disgusting coffee when John dared to utter that he would rather have sex with him than a prostitute. John could not have put any thought into those words because immediately after he’d said them he looked away from Sherlock and back out the window, pretending like he never voiced that comment. _Sex with John…_ The thought lingered in his mind like that single drifting cloud in a bright clear sky. A faint blush tainted his sharp cheek bones as his mind presented him with various images that phrase conjured. Well in a more practical way, at least John liked him more than he liked prostitutes, not that that was something he’d been questioning. Pretending that it did not rattle him, he took another sip of the coffee that was so disgusting he suddenly wished Anderson was there so he could force it on him. “This coffee was not made for human consumption.” He said in a deadpan voice, trying to change the topic before John said anything else without thinking.  
  
Everything was heading back towards normal again, that was until he heard John move away and murmur his name softly. Sherlock raised his head from regarding the gory drink in his hand and looked to his friend. Time seemed to slow around Sherlock, for John was holding his Moroccan case, and as realization donned in the doctor’s eyes, Sherlock slowly set his cup of sludge down on the breakfast cart. If Sherlock had no composure, he would have dropped the cup and grabbed the box from John’s hands, but while he was a druggie he had more control than most addicts and he was able to resist the urge. Leaning back in his chair, John asked him why he had brought it with them on the trip. However, he made no effort to answer, knowing full well that the doctor could figure it out on his own. After all, John knew him almost better than his own brother at times and wouldn’t have an issue ferreting out this answer. It was actually quite possible that John knew him better than anyone and the anger rising in his friend was becoming more and more apparent as the good doctor spoke, he didn’t have to be an open book to Sherlock for the brunette to see the storm clouds brewing. It had been so long since he had seen John get this mad and he wasn’t even including the incident a few weeks ago when John had dislocated his jaw. This was a different type of anger, it made that confused rage seem tame in comparison.  
  
He kept his mouth shut for a few moments, listening to the anger rise in John’s voice, waiting in silence until John began to pant at the end of his rant. “John, what is the chance that I actually will get that old to the point where I see the long term effects this has on me? I have many enemies John, more than you can possibly know, and yes a great majority of them are in prison at the moment. But it won’t be that way forever, the ones on lesser charges will inevitably be released. I will likely be dead before the drug has a chance to impair me. You even saw it firsthand, the type of danger we’re susceptible to; how far Moriarty went to try to kill me! If I was not a step ahead of him, I would indeed be dead right now, truly and irreversibly dead. If enemies don’t kill me then something else will, like a bomb or poison. If for some reason I am still alive and breathing with all those souls out there who would love to do me harm, I will have reached an age where my mind would start to fail me anyway and I won’t be able to _do_ this anymore. Speaking the bloody truth, I’d rather be dead from cocaine or a bloody murderer before I had the chance to lose my wits!” The words left his mouth quickly, each syllable sharp like a bull whip. For some reason, he had a bad habit of spilling too much of the truth to John. But it _was_ all true; someone would likely kill him before he reached a ripe old age. Moran tracked him down for three years without giving up. If Sherlock had made one mistake back then, he would have been dead. Frankly, he would prefer it to be that way then wasting away to nothing as an old man barely able to deduce a thing about anybody.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again to gaze up at John. Aside from the work, he saw no other purpose in his life. The only family he had was Mycroft and his brother was not someone Sherlock wanted to spend the rest of his life catering to. The only people he had were Mrs. Hudson and John. Mrs. Hudson didn’t have many all that many years left in her, he’d certainly outlive her, and John… Sherlock would make sure John lived longer than him. If his desire to protect his friend was not stronger than his urge to solve crime, then John would have been dead over three years ago.  
  
He remained quiet as John asked him to stop using the drugs, very nearly pleaded with him in fact. Sherlock had become nearly completely dependent on those drugs over the last three years; it was one of the few things that kept him going, aside from Mycroft’s weekly calls to tell him how John and Mrs. Hudson were faring. No matter how much Sherlock hated to admit it, the drugs had been his substitute for John’s companionship. The doctor had been his support and his only trusted friend all those years ago and after losing that friendship he once again found himself becoming lost and turning to the drugs. The one thing that had gotten him back on track and out of his depression had been those bottles of narcotics in the Moroccan case. The only question now was, now that he had John for support again could he give up the drugs as he had before?  
  
If he knew anything about John it was that he was not going to make this easy for him. When John became fully set on making him do something, he would try and try and try again until he got the results he wanted. Sherlock let out a tight sigh as John placed the black box on the cart in front of him. His body was begging him to grab the box and hide it somewhere where John would not be able to find it. However, Sherlock just bit his lower lip and stared at it. _Damn you John…_ The doctor wanted him to flush it down the toilet to make sure he did not retain a single vial of the stuff. John knew him better than to trust him to do it on his own. As John was sitting down, Sherlock reached up and grabbed the box calmly off the table before sitting back in his chair. His eyes did not meet John’s, for they did the doctor would probably know he was up to something. Quietly he listened to John’s pleas while slowly flicking the box open and shut, opening and closing it repeatedly like a nervous habit. His expression slowly became normal and neutral and he glanced over at John, staring into his soft blue eyes with his piecing ones. ”You really want me to quit?” He spoke softly, concentrating on the weight of John’s hand against his wrist. Of course John wanted him to quit, what a silly question.  
  
Sherlock continued to flick the box open and closed, not even touching the contents of the case. He had more back in London but it would take quite a bit for him to actually throw this stash away. He relied on this in a similar way he used to rely on John back before he had faked his own death. He closed the case but did not clasp it shut and slowly got to his feet to walk over to the window. Sherlock placed the black case on the window sill before he pushed the window open, a cold breeze of morning air curling into the warm room. He picked it up and played with in his hand, looking at it from all angles even though he knew it well already. “Fine John, you win. I will quit again, however, you are moving back into our flat when we get back to London. If you really need money to break your lease than go to Mycroft, if he hasn’t already offered to pay for it than I’m fairly certain he will. Can’t have his brother running about without his leash, after all.” Sherlock picked up the box and held it on its side, making sure to keep the opening facing away from John and toward the window. He drew his arm back, as he was doing this and pried the box open about an inch until he felt one of the glass vials slip down the sleeve of his green shirt where it was now safely hidden. “If it means you will stop searching my stuff, then I will quit for you.” Sherlock mumbled while he shut the box softly just before he chucked the whole case out the window and into the street below. The box opened mid-air, the other glass bottle smashing onto the pavement. “There, cold turkey.” He said softly before taking a seat at the breakfast cart once again. He picked up his cup of disgusting coffee and took another sip. ”This is just awful…” He grimaced.

 

~ * ~

 

John had felt a pang of dismay that Sherlock thought of his future in that way, "You may have fooled me once Sherlock...but there is no way in hell you're going to fool me again and if you even think for a moment that someone is after your life," John had leaned closer then, his voice at a deep and serious octave, "you tell me. I've shot one man dead for you, I'd do it again." He was a very loyal, protective individual. "If I'm going to have to grow old and live with it, so will you." He smirked, having released Sherlock's wrist as the other man took up the box.  
  
Now he watched his old friend as he contemplated his argument, tried not to let his annoyance become inflamed by Sherlock’s constant fidgeting with the black case. "Yes." He was very firm and very steady when he said it; yes, he did want Sherlock to quit. There was no doubt about it in his mind at all. No good at all could come from these drugs. The swell of relief that took over John when Sherlock finally broke to his reason was almost crushing and the slope of John's shoulders deepened, hanging his head down between his shoulders as a small smile stretched his lips. When he looked up again, his blue eyes were bright and smiling, his lips pursed into a thin, business-like line to hold back the grin he wanted to make. "Good." He breathed. The stipulations in return weren't horrendous, in fact he had expected as much from Sherlock, for the man was strangely adamant that he move back to the flat. He supposed his savings could be dipped into, what little he had squirreled away from his pension. There was no way he was going to accept any money from Mycroft bloody Holmes, he didn't want anything from that man.  
  
John sighed and nodded, it wasn’t a terrible decision, "Fine. I can look after you better that way anyhow." He grumbled, having looked into how much it would cost him to break his lease earlier that week. He had intended to save up a little more, maybe break the least closer to Christmas, seven months earlier than the end of his lease was up anyway. But Sherlock had a way of rushing things after all.  
  
"Deal." He said curtly, though he doubted he would really stop searching through some of Sherlock's belongings, especially if he had reason to doubt his friend's promise. "No tricks?" He murmured, watching as Sherlock held the box out the open window. Why couldn't he just flush it? Maybe he wanted to see it destroyed, glass breaking and wood smashing...  
  
"Well..." John rose from where he was sitting near the breakfast cart and moved to the window, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock and looking outside at the small box and smattering of liquid across the pavement. "Hopefully no one fusses with that." He murmured. With a deep breath, John placed his hands in his pockets and turned away, picking up his half-drunk cup of coffee from the bedside table. "And for good measure, the box was on the floor...I didn't exactly go searching." He smiled around the rim as he sipped from his mug, his brows furrowing at the taste and agreeing, "Yeah, this is really a bad cuppa." He grunted wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist and setting the cup back on the cart.  
  
After breakfast, John was sitting down on his side of the bed and it took a huge effort not to remember the warmth of lying there earlier with Sherlock as he pulled his shoes on and retrieved his coat from the closet. He extracted Sherlock's and handed it to him as well, packing the remaining items of his toiletry bag back into his old bag. "Ready when you are. Suppose we need to ask about a rental." John slung his bag over his shoulder and paused beside the end of the bed, one hand resting awkwardly on his thigh. He really didn't want to have to go past that receptionist again...he hoped another person was on duty, perhaps she was simply the night help. "And _I'm_ driving; I'm not even sure if your license is legal or current...how long has it been since you drove around? Cars aren't exactly affordable or needed in London." John muttered, "Besides, it'll give you a chance to organize everything in your head, I'm sure." He motioned to his own head as he spoke, moving across the room to close the window Sherlock had left open from his dramatic show of hurling the black box out into the street.

 

~ * ~

 

There was a certain amount of guilt echoing through his body for tricking John in such a fashion. The surviving glass bottle was now stuck and safe in the sleeve of his shirt. For all honesty sake, he did intend to quit for John. However, that was if John proceeded to move back to the flat when they returned to London. If John didn’t…well, Sherlock would rely on other things to keep him entertained. He had relied on drugs for the past three years; he knew the only thing that could take his mind off the drugs was either a case or John. Sherlock did not answer the doctor when he asked if there would be no tricks. The doctor could see the broken glass and the box on the street and if John had his eyes, he would have been able to tell that there was only enough liquid and glass for one bottle smashed on the pavement below. Yet, John didn’t have his sharp gaze, so he kept his mouth shut and took his coat from John’s hand. Slipping it over his shoulders, he walked over to his bag and stooped beside it, “Hold on, I need my phone.” He said, rooting about in his valise. He frowned, making a show of searching while he located a soft spot to extract the vial for safe keeping, sliding his hand between his pile of undergarments. Sherlock shook his arm just a bit and the bottle slid out sleeve past the cuff and into his bag. Sighing, he mimed frustration and grabbed his cellphone from an inner side pocket. “Got it! Let’s get out of here. I drive when necessary and no, I do not have a license because driving is simple physics. Any nit-wit can figure it out for themselves.”  
  
Picking his scarf up from off the floor where he’d tossed it the night before, he tied it around his neck. Sherlock pulled out his pair of leather gloves from his pockets and slipped them onto his hands, finally snatching up his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. ”Come John, let us slip out of here before that prostitute finishes with one of her clients next door. “ He moved quickly and with a bit of excitement towards the door. He didn’t wait for John, knowing full well the doctor could keep up now after a good night’s rest, a pleasant yet odd rest actually. He flung the door open and bounced out of the room, heading for the stairs. Just as they passed one of the other client’s rooms, they could hear the moaning pants and shrill shouts of a woman. The sounds weren’t born out of pain, but obvious and noisy pleasure. “Oh yes!~ Oh god, please give it to me, harder~ Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” The red head was rather…spirited. Sherlock flew down the stairs quickly and didn’t even give pause at the occurrence, leaving the hotel without a backward glance after depositing their room key on the front desk.  
  
It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining brightly it wasn’t all that chilly of a day. It was different from the skies of London which were always cloudy and bleak this time of year, or full of heavy rain. Sherlock stopped a cab and jumped in the back seat, waiting for John to follow before instructing the driver to go to the nearest car rental place. It took about thirty minutes to get to their destination and Sherlock didn’t say a word the entire ride, simply whistling a clipped tune. He got out and waited by the cars while John talked to the sales associate. He didn’t really care what car John picked out for their trek, merely gave the man his card that Mycroft was still letting him use and walked away with a bored expression. Surprisingly after the fish incident, his brother was still letting him use the funds he provided. Speaking of Watson, he hoped the koi fish was being properly taken care of in his absence. Sherlock got into the passenger seat of the rented car and immediately reclined the back all the way down so it was almost entirely reclined into the back seat. The wavy haired detective closed his eyes and pulled his dark scarf up over his eyes for the drive so he might concentrate on the facts as he knew them for their case. Not once during those four hours on the road did Sherlock even move.  
  
He slept for most of the trip, yet for the rest of the drive he was off in his mind somewhere contemplating the details of the case over and over again. Whenever John tried to talk to him, he wouldn’t even say a word. However, as soon as they were approaching the deserted Dingle Peninsula, Sherlock’s head shot up like a trigger, his scarf still blindfolding him, “To the town first, John. We should check the pub, inn, and the streets before heading onto the castle.” He spoke faster than usual out of the anticipation of their first case together, reaching up to yank the scarf away from his eyes and arrange it back around his throat. Sherlock hadn’t had a case in almost three weeks and the excitement was killing him. The rest of the ride down to town, his fingers were tapping against the door handle, just waiting for John to stop. As soon as his friend stopped the car, Sherlock flew out of it, his coat waving behind him in the wind. Sadly the town was right on the ocean, causing the wind to be even stronger here.  
  
Sherlock went into the pub first, his eyes scanning the faces of every person in the room. He had already met them all already during his last visit here. There was the psychotic butcher, the widower, the orphan (who was the unclaimed son of the widower), the librarian, the bum, and then the Mrs. Perfect teacher who is married to the wealthy doctor but is having an affair with the innkeeper if the state of her stockings is anything to go by. After scanning the crowd and finding nothing interesting he left the pub and headed over to the inn. The innkeeper was a young man, having just inherited the inn from his father who passed away two years ago from a heart attack. Sherlock smiled softly at the man who recognized him quickly. “You! The sailors down on the coast saw yer face last week! I thought you died!” The man laughed with his thick accent, patting Sherlock’s shoulder in a very friendly way. When Sherlock asked if anyone had seen anything about the castle since his last visit, the man only shook his head and said something about nothing really happening in this town. Apparently the castle had been quiet since he had left.  
  
Sherlock smiled and parted with the man before going back to the car, dropping into the passenger seat before jokingly saying, “Onward! To the castle my doctor!” It was a good forty-five minute drive up to the castle. It was on a high hill toward the tip of the peninsula and it over looked the town below with the gorgeous, never ending sea to the west of it. However, the castle itself was not a site that captured beauty. It was of a towering height, approximately fifteen stories high and the windows had been replaced with modern windows. But despite that, the castle still needed a lot of interior and exterior restoration work. The stone walls were covered in ivy, which after so many years had begun to damage the integrity of the stones. Higher up, stones were clearly falling to bits from erosion and weather damage. Sherlock’s eyes gazed up to the castle as they drove up the winding gravel road towards the behemoth. Anyone who viewed this castle had told tales of feeling a strange aura radiating from the stone edifice, either in enchanted voices or disgruntled ones, describing the chills they got from the place. They parked in front of the steps leading up to a set of open wooden doors taller than any had been back in London.

  
In the doorway stood an elderly woman, hair as white as the softest clouds in the sky. She was wrinkly but dressed finely in a black and purple dress with long sleeves and a high collar, the hem draping all the way down to her small feet. The woman was a familiar Mrs. Brennan and Sherlock got out of the car as soon as John switched off the engine of their rental, walking up to the woman with open arms. “Oh dear, Mr. Holmes, I feared you would not return. The town’s people kept saying that the castle scared you away.” Her beady brown eyes blinked at Sherlock through thin-rimmed spectacles, the wrinkles almost overtaking her eyes entirely behind her lenses. She spoke proper English, her Irish accent hardly noticeable.

“Of course not, your courage keeps drawing me back here! You are ready to give us the full tour, correct?” Sherlock smiled at the woman as she gave him a large hug. Sherlock usually hated most of his clients and discouraged all forms of greeting that required the presence of touch, however this woman was not like the others. She was very logical and fierce, which was why this case was so interesting to Sherlock because how could a logical woman even think for a moment that her castle was haunted if she did not believe it herself?

Mrs. Brennan’s small eyes peered up at John, “You…you must be Mr. Holmes’ companion. He has told me a lot about you. You are not a believer of ghosts are you? I do not want those types on these grounds…Do you scare easily?” 

~ * ~

 

John waited by the door for Sherlock as he rifled through his bag for his phone, checking the time and estimating their time of arrival. If it didn't take them long to get a rental, John figured they'd reach the peninsula by early afternoon. They walked single file down the hallway and John heard firsthand what Sherlock had meant about the red-headed woman at her ‘work’. John grimaced and walked faster, keeping to Sherlock's heels until they got downstairs. Apparently, Sherlock's hearing hadn't failed him over these past three years.  
  
They acquired a rental fairly easily, a blue two-door that got better mileage and had a fair-sized boot for their luggage and whatever else they might acquire on this case. John rented it for two days, since Sherlock was ever changing in his plans; they might end up being in Ireland longer than they planned, or leaving by this time tomorrow for all he knew. John got them to a petrol station to fill up before he set an address into his phone and clipped it to the heating vent, following the directions on the long, four hour drive. _At least we won’t be staying another night in the Aberdeen,_ he thought. The trip was a silent one and he hadn't expected anything less really. Sherlock lay silently the whole while, but when he sat up suddenly without warning five miles out from the town on the Dingle Peninsula, John started horribly and they encroached on the center line a little, a passing truck with fluffy sheep in the back blaring its horn at them in warning. John swore under his breath and glanced at Sherlock, "Alright, alright. Fine." He took a deep breath, taking the exit off the bi-way towards the town of Dunquin. The castle wasn't actually in Dingle, but in a smaller and quieter little village at the very end of the Peninsula.  
  
John was instantly annoyed with Sherlock's anxiousness, glancing at his drumming fingers on the door handle several times, almost asking him to stop...but what good would that do, he'd just take up some other annoying pass time. So John was glad once they reached Dunquin, the little blue car barely parked before Sherlock was out and taking up a swift walk. The wind was biting and whipped around a person like they were a single standing island in the middle of a wide open space, which wasn't much of an exaggeration. The town was small and the closest neighbor they had was some miles out to sea; the Blasket Islands, which were no longer inhabited. John pulled his jacket around himself tighter and followed Sherlock into the buildings he went into. It seemed he had been here before, and he remembered Sherlock telling him he had journeyed here to try to duplicate the earlier picture himself. The townspeople were rather friendly and only mildly accented, strange for how far out from Dublin they were.  
  
Back in the car again, John shook his head with a half-smile at Sherlock's enthusiasm. It was good to see a little color back in those sallow cheeks; he had to admit, so he didn't begrudge Sherlock his joy of the hunt. The road up to the castle was a long and winding, narrow stretch of road lined with a low stone wall that was an endless climb as they wound their way up to the top point of the peninsula, the highest peak this low to the sea. They pulled through bent, heavy wrought iron gates at the end of a short stretch of drive that took them up to the edge of the rundown castle. It looked as if there had been attempts to try to renovate the castle, but as John had been told earlier, they had stopped when the Castle's ownership had changed hands from Mr. Brennan to Mrs. Brennan, due to putting it on the market.  
  
It was a grand sort of structure, or at least it used to be in its prime he was sure. Ivy crawled like tentacles up the sides of its walls and it had a great pillar of a tower in the back end overlooking the sea, though part of the roof was missing. Frowning, John found himself staying close to the car subconsciously. It was silly really, this little feeling that gave him pause. But he shook it off and approached the front steps with Sherlock, a step behind him. When the detective received a hug, John's brows rose. Seemed he was on good terms with this one...not just another annoying, uneducated client in the genius' eyes. "Hullo, yes." John held out his hand to the elderly woman, taking it gently in his own and patting the top of it with a smile. So Sherlock had been talking about him behind his back  it would seem, "Hopefully only good things." He murmured with a glance at Sherlock. "No," he shook his head, "I may have been raised Catholic ma'am but I've a low tolerance for superstition. I was a military man, I don't scare easily." He nodded curtly at her and folded his arms behind his back in the old habit of posture, shifting on his heels, looking between Sherlock and Mrs. Brennan expectantly as they began the tour. And as much as he felt he shouldn't, he felt that unease grow as they entered the castle, the great wooden door creaking with a low, heavy sound. The floors were all original marble and stone and John could hear his steps echoing in the great front hall, a sweeping staircase leading up to the other floors and archways leading off to the other areas of the house on the ground floor. He didn't doubt this place had a very large cellar beneath its floors as well.  
  
Scaffolding was placed against the left wall, a restoration work stopped in progress on a portrait of a family on that wall, a few buckets of paint left behind and a white coverall splattered with colors of paint hanging over a rung of the structure. Seemed the crew had left in a hurry. John felt an icy finger creep up his spine, that old sense kicking in from his time spent overseas, telling him to look behind himself. But there was only a coat rack, dusty and empty. Frowning, John brought up the rear of their little party as Mrs. Brennan showed them around and gave a brief history of the place. As it turns out, very little was actually known about the families that had passed through its halls, but enough was known about the builders from the stonework and architecture.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock smiled softly at the elderly woman as she turned and began her tour. His eyes were quickly gazing over every nook and cranny of the place. Every once and awhile he would ask her to explain her words in further detail or to explain her reasoning behind certain things but nothing new was discovered that he didn’t already know. She was trying to sell the place and the buyer was paranoid to cell. Mrs. Brennan led them up the staircase, speaking in her cultured voice, “As you lads might remember, I told you about the last family who used to live here. My past relatives, it would seem.” Sherlock nodded, keeping behind the woman’s very slow pace up the stairs. In most cases Sherlock would have grown very impatient, however his eyes were busy studying the floor plan of this castle, looking for any secret passages or doors. “Well, just about all of their belongings still remain in this house.”  
  
Yet he could find none in clear sight. There were no signs that anyone had disturbed the place lately. There was even a tad bit of dust building up on the railing of the stairs, disturbed by Mrs. Brennan’s use of its serpentine twist up to the second level. Once they were on the second floor, Mrs. Brennan proceeded to show them the huge library. It was a magnificent room, possibly even the size of a ball room, though there was a rather large gap in the wall where the stones were giving way as the mortar crumbled. There were shelves and shelves of books housed in tall bookcases that stretched up towards the crumbling ceilings, tarps stretched across the cavities that leaked to keep the damp from reaching the books below. No doubt the future buyer would want to keep all of the historical value still in the place, so little had been touched or moved during the restoration processes. The ceiling was grand and high over their heads, candle chandeliers hanging from the ceiling with flames guttering in the weeping candles. “The man you saw in the photograph I gave you. They say he was seen in this room, pacing the floors like a shadow.” She mumbled softly, pointing to the stone-floored aisles between the book shelves. Next the elderly woman led them to the drawing room and the room that was used to entertain guests. Nothing exciting was there to be found in either of those rooms though and Sherlock followed the woman patiently still.

  
The next floor, as Mrs. Brennan said, contained the rooms for guests. “I suggest you use these rooms to stay in at night boys, they are almost completely intact, no holes in the walls or anything. Most of the restoration work was completed here.” She opened one of the doors to a guest room and as she said the rooms were fine. There was no furniture in the rooms except for an old bed frame without a mattress upon it. They would need some heavy blankets if they were going to get through the night without freezing to death. Sherlock made note to himself to make John go on a run for supplies. His eyes turned back to Mrs. Brennan who was already starting to walk up to the next floor. Sherlock had remained fairly quiet throughout the tour, taking in every detail of the castle and preferring to let the old woman do the talking. “There is nothing much more to see on this floor. There are only five guest bedrooms, but the next floor was where the children’s rooms were and their play room.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes followed the walls and the further up they went, the more there seemed to be construction left in mid-progress. There were ladders and toolboxes on the floor here and Sherlock stepped off the staircase onto the third floor, careful not to bump into anything as they wound their way down the hall past ladders and benches. Mrs. Brennan was already walking down the narrow hallway to the left of the stairwell. The one bad thing about building with stone was that it was harder to support a large structure such as this and Sherlock examined the walls as they passed them, sliding his fingers against crumbling mortar and bringing it to his nose to determine its make-up. To solve the earlier structural difficulties, the castles of old would be built narrower towards the top floors, but this left the structure susceptible to cave-ins. Mrs. Brennan was even further down the hallway to their left now and Sherlock started after her, not wanting to lose the old woman. At the far end of the hall, she opened a narrow door to reveal a little girl’s room. Actually, he noted that it didn’t once belong to one female child, but two young girls. There were two beds lying on opposite sides of the room, a dusty white drapes drawn back at each corner post of the bed frame, a canopy built over each of them. A thick layer of dust covered just about everything in the bed chamber and it seemed like the construction workers hadn’t been fond of this room. There were stones missing in the walls and you could see the blue sky through all the spider webbings of cracks in the walls. On the floor there were porcelain dolls dressed in small dresses and shoes and there had to have been about twenty of them, all lined up on the floor in between the beds. Mrs. Brennan didn’t walk very far into the room, preferring to stand outside and glance in. “This belonged to the twin daughters. The workers feared this room the most out of all of them, refused to go in it in fact.” She said and turned around, walking back down the hallway and continuing past the stairwell along the other half of the hallway. Sherlock, however, lingered there for a moment, his eyes gazing at the small girl’s dresses of lace that were left on a chest in the far corner of the room.  
  
Knowing fully well that he would have another chance to get a better look at the room, Sherlock turned away and followed Mrs. Brennan to the opposite end of the hallway. There, she opened another door to another chamber which must have belonged to the son of the family. It was filled with a deadly silence and it was clear that this room had not been touched either judging by the state of the dust and the stone walls, not to mention the hollow darkness that was rather heavy with dust. Sherlock’s eyes glanced over the fake wooden toy guns and the bed which was in a complete state of disorder and half in shambles on the floor. With another glance, he did not linger any longer and quickly followed Mrs. Brennan to the playroom, a chamber which was dead center between both the young man’s and the two girls’ rooms. This was also the brightest of the rooms on this floor and there were things that you would commonly find in a child’s play room: dried up paints, paper, chests of wooden and painted toys, spring loaded toys on the floor, stuffed animals and rag dolls and a few disintegrating balls. It was calm and rather quiet in this room, the cool sea air and failing sunshine from outside filtering into the room past the tarp over another hole in the ceiling. Mrs. Brennan mumbled something under her breath about the room before she turned back and opened a door leading up a smaller set of stairs to the last floor of the castle; a single wide chamber of vast open space.

  
“This is where the Mr. and Mrs. stayed. The workers swear they heard screaming coming from this room. Saying it sounded like a woman being murdered.” She said quietly, pushing the door open to what was supposed to be the master suite of castle. Despite the title, it was nothing of the sorts. Personally, it looked like an abandoned room that belonged to a serial killer. There was a large bed in the middle of the room, the mattress slashed with a knife of sorts and the straw half pulled out. The mirrors were shattered and glass was strewn all over the floor, not a living soul had been to clean it up and Sherlock looked it over to see how recent it had been broken, but there was a thick layer of dust over all the glass shards. Women’s clothing was thrown out of the drawers and tossed about the room like a hurricane had broken in through the narrow windows and had its chaotic way with all the possessions. On the walls there were marks were someone had clawed at it repeatedly, dried blackened stains of what Sherlock noted to be blood pushed deep into each scar. As he observed, Sherlock eyed the entire scene without any outwardly expressed emotions, his hands caught loosely behind his back. He had seen many different crime scenes worse than this one, if a crime had indeed been done here, the trail so cold it was stretched thin over hundreds of years. Mrs. Brennan held her back, appearing to be in some discomfort; wincing. Without another word, Sherlock gave her his hand and helped her down the staircases. “I must apologize, boys. I wanted to give you a better tour but my back has been killing me going up and down all these steps.”  
  
”It is fine, you have given us more than enough.” He spoke softly, helping her out of the castle. There was a black car waiting for her outside and Mrs. Brennan held onto his hand tightly before looking up at John.

“You will be careful, won’t you boys? I do not want this place to be destroyed. My whole family history lies in this castle.” She gave them a kind smile and Sherlock leaned down for her to kiss his cheek. “So handsome, if only I could get some more meat on your bones! You had better keep that one on a tight leash.” The last comment was turned towards John, pointing her slightly gnarled finger at the doctor before getting into the black car.  
  
“Did you hear that John? I am a catch.” Sherlock let out a laugh, glancing back at the castle. “We are going to need some blankets, flashlights, and candles for the night John. Go to town and get them.” Sherlock spoke quickly, turning back around and stretching his arms out in front of himself, cracking his knuckles a little, “I need to search this _haunted_ place with no side commentators.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to drop us a few comments guys! It's really appreciated and encouraging. =]


	5. More Than A Bit Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghosts, dark magic, and confused detectives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the long awaited paranormal twist! It should continue in creepiness for about one or two more chapters and believe me, we've got a lot more in store for you all. And as always, please let us know what you think, we'd like to think you aren't all faceless drones out there! <3

Throughout the tour, John couldn't stop himself from keeping to the rear of their troupe and glancing behind them, half expecting a worker or some other person to join them and start explaining as well. He...definitely got the feeling that someone or something was watching their progression through the old castle. But he dismissed it sharply, telling himself he was being stupid to consider it to be a ghost. Perhaps some townspeople were curious enough to lurk about...he was sure no such thing as a great detective coming to investigate an old castle happened often in this tiny town.   
  
The rooms were pretty common place when you thought about the time period all this furniture and stuff came from. The rooms they were directed to place their headquarters was hardly homey, but it was solid and looked to at least be rain proof. It was still chilly though, horribly so considering there was no heat. He remembered seeing a large fireplace downstairs though; perhaps they could light it later. The wind howled through the holes in the walls of the next rooms Mrs. Brennan showed them. John came up behind Sherlock to get a peek into the little girls' room, taking one glance at the old dolls before he shook his head and turned away. He had seen way too many trashy horror flicks that started with creepy dolls to want to look at them for too long. He wasn't exactly afraid of them...but they were just creepy to look at, all unblinking and smiling.   
  
When the son's bedroom door was opened, there was a subtle shift in the air that prickled the skin on John's arms and made his heart sink. Whatever had happened to the family here, he hoped they would soon find out. Maybe a trip to the town archives was in order. There was no sound in the boy's old room, as if all the realness and life had been sucked out of it and left a silent space behind in its wake. John was almost left behind, standing in the doorway looking in at the dusty furniture and old toys. He took a single step inside, hands in his pockets, duffel hanging off his shoulder. A flicker of something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye and he turned his head sharply towards the corner where he'd seen something move. But there was only a short, squat little rocking chair for a child and it was still and unmoving. A teddy bear sat in it, one button eye missing. John's nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath and turned on his heel, stiffly walking to catch up to the woman and Sherlock engaging the third flight of stairs up to a master suite.   
  
"Christ...” John muttered at the sight of the place, dust mingling with feathers on the ground. "Looks like a mad house in here..." He whispered, noting the scratches on the wall and the state of the bed. When Mrs. Brennan winced and hunched over a little, he turned and caught up her elbow, helping Sherlock escort her back downstairs. "You should probably rest; there are a lot of stairs in this place." He murmured, offering her a smile. When they passed the rooms on the second floor they were meant to stay in, John set his duffel just inside the door, figuring he could leave it there for now.   
  
Outside, the oppressive feeling melted away instantly and John turned to glance over the place as Sherlock spoke with the lady. He looked up into one of the attic windows and frowned, narrowing his eyes. There was a tiny, pale, featureless face casting a shadow across the panes and John almost turned to Sherlock to point it out to him. But when he glanced back the figure was gone and he blinked a few times, shaking his head. He caught the comment made about Sherlock and John pursed his lips, managing a tight smile, "Right." Was all he could get out though, for he wouldn't rant at an old lady that he and Sherlock were not a goddamn couple. "Yes, absolutely ravishing." He said with a bland expression at his friend, shaking his head and turning back towards the castle as the black car drove away with Mrs. Brennan as a passenger.

John was about to mount the steps to go back inside, the wind tossing his hair about and making him shiver, but Sherlock's demands forestalled him. What was he, the butler? He scowled slightly but agreed for they needed supplies and there was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock wouldn't spare a moment to accompany him to do such a meager task. So heaving a long sigh, he fished the car keys out of his pocket, "I'll be back, don't go falling down any secret shafts without me, alright?" He walked out to their car parked in the muddy drive and got inside, turning it around in the drive and going back down the hill they had come up on not twenty minutes ago.   
  
In town, there was a store that was like a 'One Stop Cash 'n Shop' and he stopped there, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to ask for Sherlock's card before he left. But he had some cash in his account and he was sure he had enough for a little wiggle room. He bought two sleeping bags, two heavy wool blankets, a gas lantern, two flashlights with a pack of twenty-four batteries, two whole bags of those little tea candles in the metal holders, and a pair of insulated gloves for himself, for he only had a ragged pair back at the castle. The last things he bought were four roast beef sandwiches, a family-size bag of crisps, a packet of breakfast tea, and a two gallon jug of water. To top it off, he included a tiny kit of camping ware; two cups, two plates, and two bowls. John bought a bag to put all the lose stuff in and carried it and the two rolled up sleeping bags back to the car, fitting it all into the boot.   
  
The shopping had only taken him about an hour and a half and by the time he got back to the castle, it was the middle of the afternoon. John parked the car as close to the front steps as he could get so he would have less of a distance to walk with his arms laid down with stuff. He caught up as much as he could, but ended up having to make two trips up to the rooms they had been allowed to claim. His last trip brought up Sherlock's black bag, setting it beside the empty, dusty wardrobe in the second room next to his. He doubted they would be sleeping much, but it couldn't hurt to have the means to, and it was going to get a hell of a lot colder the later it got. Soon, he would see about building a fire downstairs. Pulling out his phone, he noticed they had no cell service up here, so he couldn't just text Sherlock to find him in the huge place. "Sherlock?" He called down the second floor hallway, wandering up towards the third floor stairs, stopping at the bottom. Something wasn't...quite right. "Sherlock?" He called again, his tone a little more urgent. Something was blocking his way forward; at least that's what he felt like. There was nothing visibly in front of him, but he felt that prickle of warning that if he stepped forward, he would run into something. In that moment, John did something he thought he'd never do again in his adult years. He crossed himself, touching his fingertips to his forehead, shoulders, and stomach before he pushed forward. The stairs were empty and the feeling was gone and he walked quickly up the steps, trying to put that whole damn experience behind him, "Sherlock...I brought the shopping, what're you doing?" He was on the third floor and the door to the girls' room was ajar. The one with the creepy dolls...

 

~ * ~

 

A small smile crossed Sherlock’s face at John’s last comment before he got into their rental car. He waited outside the castle for a few moments until John drove away, finally he was alone. He did appreciate John’s company most of the time but there were just a few moments where Sherlock needed to think without anyone near him. His piercing blue eyes gazed up toward the building. For some reason this castle was making people hallucinate about ghosts. Ghosts and spirits did not exist, there was no such thing as a person haunting someone else. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought and began to make his way back into the castle. There was a possibility there were drugs involved with the trick whatever puppeteer was playing. Clearly, whoever was behind this used the ghost stories to his advantage. So he drugged the workers and other witnesses to prove the stories true and warn them off. Yet, this did not explain why women were found to be committing suicide on the property for such a long time.    
  
Sherlock let out a deep sigh as he entered the castle, his eyes falling upon on the half restored portrait on the wall. Whatever had happened to this family, it would not be a pretty business when they found out. The dark haired male turned and made his way up to the library. He pushed his way through the double doors and unbuttoned his coat; it was cold in here but his coat was restricting his movements. It was quiet…oddly quiet in this room and he held the only heart that beat in this whole castle yet there should be some other sounds. Maybe the sounds of creaking or a mouse scurrying on the stone floor, or the noise of the wind they had noticed through the crumbling holes in the walls. Yet there was nothing, not a sound disturbed this place as he strolled deeper into the library. Sherlock shrugged the eerie silence off and continued to look around, scanning the rows of books on the first row shelves. This collection was entirely different from what was normally found in modern libraries. There were extremely old copies of novels written decades ago and books of maps and dictionaries of different languages all stuffed together on the shelves in some form of order. This was the castle of a man who did not just have money but also had knowledge and had strived for more in his day. Sherlock’s fingertips traced the shelf that was at his eye level, capturing a bit of dust on his fingertips. Nothing had been disturbed; there weren’t even dusty fingerprints from when the workers had been here months ago.   
  
The original owner of this library, Mr. Brennan, valued knowledge very much and had kept the ancient books in their original order. Even though the books were old and some where even now falling apart at their spines, it was clear that they had been treasured and taken care of back in the day, otherwise they would have never lasted through to this day. Sherlock tapped his finger against a dictionary that had been used quite frequently by its owners, judging by the condition of its spine. His finger clasped its edge and just as he was pulling it out, the silence in the castle was shattered. Outside of the room and on the staircase, Sherlock could hear the sound of running footsteps leading up the stairs. They continued for a moment and then stopped and there was silence again. Sherlock let go of the book, his eyes swiveling towards the open door of the library. A door on the upper story slammed shut over his head and he glanced upwards towards the stone ceiling and wooden beams.

  
Sherlock dared not make a sound. Someone else was in the castle with him and it couldn’t have been John; he had just left not long ago to get supplies. His company must have been fairly young; the steps had been light and very quick. Whoever had created them was in shape and very fast. Therefore, the footsteps could not have belonged to John even if he somehow had returned in such a short time. They had been the footsteps of a young girl for they had been too soft, almost as if the owner had been wearing slippers. She must have been running on her very tippy toes up the stairs. No fully grown male or boisterous boy would have done such a thing. Perhaps she was lost, which he highly doubted, or a girl who was about to commit suicide. Either way, Sherlock would have to find this girl before she did anything stupid. The detective turned away from the book shelves and left the library. Quickly and as quietly as he could manage, he went up the stairs and to the fourth floor. The steps were quick and judging by the speed and distance they had traveled, the girl should have stopped at the third floor, where the children rooms were.   
  
Sherlock glanced down the hallway in both directions. The door to the boy’s room remained open while the door to the girls’ room was now shut tight. His eyes started at the door knob carefully as he turned to walk down the hall towards the shut door to the bed chambers. The girl who had snuck in here must know where it was she had been heading. There had been no pause in the footsteps; the footing had been sure, had known where she wanted to go. Sherlock’s slender fingers laced around the door knob slowly and as quietly as he could, he turned it only to meet resistance. It was locked. His piercing blue eyes stared at the door. Whoever was in there did not want to be disturbed.   
  
However, that was not how Sherlock did things. So, he pulled out his lock pick and knelt in front of the door. It took a few minutes of fighting with the lock before he was able to force the door open. The workers had restored a lot of the areas on the first level but it seemed they hadn’t only replaced the windows, but the doors as well with ones that locked no less. Sherlock pushed the door open slowly, getting ready to have to stop a girl from hanging herself or some other such nonsense.   
  
What he found on the other side of the door left the great detective completely dumbfounded. There was no one here, not even a trace of anyone having been in this room since they’d visited it. There was still a thick coat of dust covering everything in the room. Sherlock took a step forward, feeling a strange chill rushing over his body like a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped over his head. The detective shoved his hands in his pockets and dared to take another step over the threshold. This time the sound of his foot hitting the ground echoed across the room. The shades of pinks and blues seemed odd to him now. Sherlock took another step, ignoring the chill and the strange echoing effect that this room held. Walking to the beds, he stopped in front of the row of dolls. It was a strange place for girls to put their dolls; they were all lined up in a row on the floor, almost like soldiers waiting for battle. Sherlock stared at the glass smiling faces; the cold dead air in the room only seemed to get chillier. The next time he decided to go in this room he was going to wear a blanket or something warmer than his wool coat. Sherlock’s eyes shifted up to the bed on his left for something was casting off a gleam of light underneath the canopy, reflecting the light from outside a narrow, crumbling window in the room. Without any hesitation, Sherlock pushed the lace curtain aside; his movements stirring up dust everywhere, and picked up a small leather bound book on the bed. There was a silver clasp with a key hole in the side that had caught his attention. Sherlock lifted his scarf over his nose to protect himself from the smog of dust that was clouding the room, his eyes watering from the irritant. This was one of the girl’s diaries it would seem and it may hold the only account of what had happened to the family who had lived in this house so many ages ago. Sherlock’s eyes glanced around the room, searching for the missing key, but he could always pick this lock as well if he needed to.

   
His blue eyes strained a bit to see; there was too much dust in the air for a good evaluation. Despite that and the now numbing cold that was stretching across his skin, he remained in the room searching for the key. The hair on his arms and neck was standing straight up and there were even goose bumps rising up on his flesh. Sherlock paused while searching for the key, spotting another source of a gleaming light coming from underneath the bed. The detective knelt down on the floor and slowly reached down under the bed, trying to feel around for the object he’d caught a glimpse of. It was too dark to see underneath the bed with his shadow blocking the sun from the window behind him and currently he did not have a flashlight to use to find the object of his interest. Sherlock slid his fingers through the thick dust on the stone floor, searching for what he’d thought he’d seen before something sharp cut in his index finger. Quickly he withdrew his hand, examining the wound. Blood was oozing from the cut and sliding down his finger into the palm of his hand. Whatever had cut him had been certainly sharp and thin like a scalpel. With more determination this time, Sherlock reached back down with his other hand and extracted…a doll.

Its face was smashed in and all that remained was one green eye and its smiling lips. On the edges of the sharp glass was a smear of blood, no doubt from his finger. However, he was more interested in what was shoved into the gapping face: a small silver key. Sherlock grinned and shook the key out into the palm of his hand. As soon as he stood up, triumph in his step, something changed in the girls’ room. The temperature had dropped a sudden ten degrees and it had already been cold but now it was at least a few degrees below zero, his breath fogging thickly in front of his face. His eyes widened in confusion as he scanned the room and felt and odd sensation prickling past the cold on the back of his neck. His instincts screamed that there was someone watching him and Sherlock started towards the door, noticing that it was no longer open wide as he’d left it. Somehow it had fallen mostly shut, only open a few inches. Sherlock knew he hadn’t touched it and there wasn’t a single breeze strong enough to budge it shut. Not far away, he could swear he heard John calling for him, and yet the sound of his friend’s voice was muffled in this room, as if it were miles away.   
  
Eyes…eyes were watching him. Sherlock knew when he was being observed and someone was scrutinizing him so hard he could feel it like a physical caress. He wanted to turn, to glance around but the muscles in his neck refused to obey him and his body remained petrified. The detective clutched the diary and the key in his hands and slowly he took a step forward. Instead of the soft tap his foot had produced on the stone cobbles earlier, the sound of his foot colliding with the floor was a deafening thud. Something was not right and John was getting closer to the room if the volume of his voice was anything to go by. Honestly, he wished his friend would just kick the door in and pull him from the room because he could barely move himself and every fiber of his being was screaming at him to _get out!_ Sherlock was about to take another step when he faltered, jaw clenching tightly as a tremor started to shake through his whole body. The room was already freezing but something was putting pressure on his right shoulder, the shape and feel of the weight on him very much like a…hand. That was the last straw and he snapped fear fueling his charging steps towards the door, feeling the gaze on him the entire time. He grabbed the edge of the door and yanked it open, storming out of the room like a bat out of hell with a wide-eyed look of fear and anger on his face.   
  
His wide and confused eyes fell on John as the man came to a sudden halt down the hallway and Sherlock stared at him for a moment as he worked to calm down. It was warmer out here in the hallway and he glanced back towards the girls’ room with growing resolve. There was nothing there but a row of dolls and Sherlock glared at them, feeling his left hand shaking until he clenched it tightly at his side. The detective blanked his face as fast as he could, shoving his shaking hand into his pocket where it wouldn’t be seen. “There you are. I was starting to wonder if you had gone back to the prostitute at the inn. You didn’t forget anything, did you?” Sherlock faked a tight smile and quickly stalked down the hallway without another glance. ”I was looking for evidence and I found a diary! Perhaps a firsthand account of what might have happened here so long ago. Unfortunately it was written by one of the little girls but it is the best bet we have to find any information out about this family. No one else seems to know anything.” Sherlock raised his right hand with the diary clutched tightly in his fingers, still strangely bleeding, blood dripping all over the leather cover. 

 

~ * ~

 

John just cleared the landing when he saw and heard Sherlock come bursting from the girls' room, something clutched to his chest, eyes wild and looking all about with the first shreds of fear. He could've sworn it was fear...   
  
Swallowing, John glanced at the open girls' room as he hurried over to his friend, not knowing what he was expecting he'd see. Maybe a dead body or a person with a gun about to blow his friend to high hell, but when he looked into the room it was empty...but it didn't feel very nice in there either. John reached out and gripped the edge of the open door, his nostrils flaring as he felt a very distinct feeling that he should not be touching the door at all. He looked at Sherlock. "You alright?" He watched as Sherlock mounted the great feat of composing himself, "Yes, I got everything..." John's voice was soft, a little strained even as he kept his hand on the door, turning steely blue eyes back towards the room. He got the impression that he was staring right into the eyes of a very dangerous individual and he couldn't pry his eyes away. But he still spoke in a steady, war-roughened voice, his command voice. "Let’s not go in this room anymore Sherlock." With a physical effort, John slowly closed the door, the click of the lock resounding and final as the knob twisted and settled into its housing. He paused there and then found he could withdraw his hand without a feeling of fantastic dread and the hammering of his heart began to slow. The hard line of his jaw softened and the tension slowly drained from his shoulders as he took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks, turning raised brows towards his friend. "Lovely, reading material. I didn't pick up a newspaper." That's when he noticed Sherlock's bleeding hand. "You've already got yourself cut into, I see. Let’s put something on that." He followed Sherlock down the hall and all the way down to their second floor bedrooms where he'd placed their things. "I got us sleeping bags, blankets, flashlights, batteries, a gas lamp, candles, some lighters, food, and water." He hooked a thumb behind his shoulder, "And your bag is in your room, the car is locked up, and we're good for a long night in." He was beginning to wish it would go by quickly. He delved into his bag and came up with the old first aid kit he always packed, the first purchase he'd made after moving into the flat with Sherlock years ago in fact. He pulled out some ointment and a bandage and held his hand out for Sherlock's. "You're bleeding all over the place, c'mon." He cleaned the cut with some gauze and wrapped it up tight enough to staunch the flow of blood and start it to mending. It must have been a very deep and clean cut to still be bleeding so badly.  
  
"When it gets dark, we can go about and light some candles." He sat down in an old, creaky wooden chair and braced his arm along the back. "Is the diary legible?" He listened as Sherlock spoke and got into the shopping, pulling out a sandwich and offering one to his friend, even knowing he'd probably refuse, no matter how hungry he was. So he ate one himself. After a while, he pulled out his journal and a pen. "So we know...so far, that there was one young boy, two little girls, a mother and a father. Then...whoever else keeps entering this place and dying here. You mentioned suicides...but they must have all been cleaned up rather well because I cannot see a lick of evidence around here to support a suicide, let alone multiple suicides, happened here." John stretched his legs out, slouching in his chair. They went over the facts as they knew them now, and John had to strongly refrain from asking Sherlock about his experience in the little girls' bedroom. He had seen the surprise, the confusion, the bewilderment in Sherlock's face when it had appeared he had been hurled from the very room. John had seen a few things, felt a lot of things...but feelings weren't evidence and Sherlock would surely scoff at him. So John kept his opinions to himself.   
  
"Well." He sighed, closing his journal, "Suppose that's all we've got so far. We could always run round to the town archives in the morning to look over the house's histories and owners." John rose and stretched, pulling out both of the camping cups, the tea box, and the big jug of water. "I'm going to warm some water for a cuppa, want one?" John nudged his chin in the direction of the hallway and the downstairs area. He left Sherlock to follow and squatted down before the hearth, pushing some wood blocks into the open maw of it and crumpling some bits of an old newspaper sitting by the fireplace into the fire grate. He lit it, fanned the flames, encouraged them, and then poured two cups of water, setting them right at the edge of the fireplace to get warm. Two plush swing-backed chairs sat before the fireplace and John took up one. Idly, he wondered about how to broach the topic he so desperately wanted to bring up.   
  
"Sherlock..." He stared into the flames. "You know I'm capable of reasoning, please...don't joke with me on that." He looked at Sherlock with a level headed stare, "You've never known me to be prone to true bouts of panic or insanity, madness doesn't run in my family exactly." He frowned, "But...this place." Trailing off, John glanced up at the rafters, heavy beams running across the ceiling to hold up the massive structure. "This place feels...god awful." John murmured, "And occasionally, I do go on my gut feelings. This place is beyond oppressive." John dropped his chin into his hand, elbow braced on the arm of the chair. "What about you? I now you don't put much stock at all on feelings, but you looked kind of startled coming out of that room upstairs earlier." John cleared his throat, getting up while Sherlock spoke to put some teabags into the cups, pulling his sleeve over his hand to pull the metal cups away from the fire until the handles could cool down enough to touch, handing Sherlock his tea when it was ready.

 

~ * ~

 

This had become one of those moments where Sherlock was beyond happy to see his good friend and doctor again. If he had no composure, he would have hugged the other man tightly. If Sherlock had been left alone for much longer he might have actually lost his mind in that room. There was just something about it that made him feel so…illogical and unbalanced. As if there was something he did not quite understand creeping up on him. But that was impossible and Sherlock knew just about everything when it came down to a case or crime. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as John shut the door to the room serving as their headquarters. Whatever was in that room upstairs, if there was anything in there at all, was trying to mess with him. No matter what he had just experienced, it had to be just a figment of his imagination he had yet to tamp down. Something his mind created from the environment he is in and threatening to topple his hold in reason. “I can’t disagree with that. Those dolls creep me out too.” He forced a soft laugh. If he was to tell John what had happened then his friend would think he was back on the drugs and no doubt throw another mothering complex fit.   
  
John always acted like his doctor, protector, and his mother. The way John looked at the cut on his finger almost made him laugh. If he didn’t have John to worry about him constantly, what would he do? Sherlock sighed softly as John went down to the first floor, following after him with his hands in his coat pockets. He was still shaken up a bit and there was a slight tremor vibrating through his body still. Even now he imagined he could feel the cold creeping up on him like it had in that room. John was right; neither of them was going in there anytime soon. But whatever was in that room, he was now determined to expose it and would probably return at some point during their stay. Sherlock was no fool and he had control over his mind unlike most people. But what he had felt in that room was something he’d only ever felt in terrible nightmares when he’d been a boy. He had to prove to himself that he wasn’t going insane. What he saw in that room was going against all logic and reason he’d spent his whole life proving. Unfortunately, the slightest thought of what had happened in that room sent chills up and down his spine. Sherlock grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around himself. If Lestrade could see him now, he would start insisting Sherlock was in shock… In this case, he would be only partially right.   
  
He held out his hand the way a child would when their mother was putting a band aid on it. “John, you really are my personal doctor, well my motherly doctor. You need to stop treating me like I am a child. I am not going to die if you don’t look me over every five seconds. John, you wonder why people see us as a couple and yet you baby me as if I were your boyfriend. This is how couples act, don’t they?” He talked in an almost mocking tone as John fixed his cut.  
  
Sherlock pulled out the diary and slipped the key into the lock carefully before twisting it open with a click, “I don’t eat while on cases John, you know this.” He said quickly without thought when John offered him a sandwich. Opening the leather book, he carefully took a turn through the pages. The paper had turned a yellowish cream from the years of aging; however, the writing was still intact. They were indeed the writing of a young girl, most of the beginning half of the book was about her love for a little boy who loved her twin sister instead. Sherlock frowned, flicking through the pages. “Doodles and worthless chicken scratch so far. Then again, you might enjoy this John. It’s about a girl’s love story.” He spoke sarcastically, continuing to flip through the pages.   
  
As John began talking about the information they already had, Sherlock continued to flick through the book while speaking. “Correct, the women either hung themselves in the library or jumped out of the building from the Master’s bedchambers upstairs. There were some bodies that were never found, or so the town coroner tells me.” Sherlock ignored the rest of John’s comments until his friend stood up to make his way downstairs. Call Sherlock a coward if you wish but he did not exactly want to be alone after the incident in the girls’ chambers. So he stood up, still flipping through the diary while following John downstairs. He took the other chair beside the fireplace, his eyes not even lifting from the pages in his lap. Sherlock felt there had to be something in this diary.  It belonged to a girl named Claire who wrote about everything that seemed to happen to her from day to day. From every birthday her and her sister had ever had to the birth of their little bother that they seemed to hate with a passion. Sherlock flicked forward toward one of the last pages and his eye caught on a passage, beginning to read.

Sherlock lifted his head, hearing John call his name softly. His friend was worried about this place and John hadn’t even been in the room when Sherlock had experienced that chill and disembodied gaze, and yet John felt uneasy all the same. Whatever had spooked Sherlock had also frightened John, and John didn’t frighten easily either. “John, don’t be foolish. I know you are not stupid...not as stupid as other people anyway. This place, there is something wrong here. I do not believe it is the castle itself, there must be some sort of drug or trick in play here.” He mumbled the last bit, taking the cup of tea from John, the warmth of the cup feeling nice on his icy hands. He held the diary out to John, “Here take a look at this. Tell me what you think.” On the page the diary was opened to there was one word scratched into the paper over and over and over again for a good five pages; it was the word ‘ _Kill_.’ 

 

~ * ~

 

When Sherlock had mentioned his habit of 'mothering' him, as he had put it, John squeezed that injured finger a little harder than a gentle doctor would. "I'm a doctor Sherlock, and whether I know the person or not, I'll give them treatment...you're a friend, I just give you better treatment." His smile was tight and he dismissed the topic at hand, refusing to get flustered over it.   
  
Now, downstairs, with their feet turned towards the fire and warm cups of tea in their hands, John fell silent as Sherlock continued to flip through the pages of the child's diary. "Oh yeah? Got herself a little beau huh?" He murmured an odd half smile on his lips as he looked into the flames of the fire. "Suppose love was more innocent back then, especially at a young age." John yawned softly around the rim of his cup before he took a sip, hissing as he burnt his lip.   
  
When Sherlock spoke of the fates of the family, he winced, "Such a God awful business..." He inhaled the steam from his mug of tea. "There had to be some sort of madness here...something to drive somebody to do such a thing, and with three children." John didn't have any kids of his own, but he hoped to some day and the very thought of it was painful.   
  
John looked up as Sherlock spoke, "You think this is like the Baskerville case? Some kind of smog or something...place is pretty clear, and it's too windy for anything outside to remain for very long." John heard the wind howl in agreement, whistling through a few holes in the wall across the great hallway. "And this house is covered in holes; it's not air tight by any means." He decided to take Sherlock's earlier words as a compliment, for it was as close to flattery as Sherlock would ever get, unless he was trying to woo you for something he wanted.   
  
"Hm?" John leaned forward to take the diary as Sherlock held it out to him; setting it on his knee to the open pages and feeling a chill run down through his blood and jump start his head. It was in the girl's same handwriting as before, only it had lost its innocent swirls and curls and cursive. These words...were _carved_ into the book with some sort of graphite stick, some other form other than the ink she would usually write with. "This is angry...very obsessive." John's brows furrowed and he leaned forward to set his cup down on the edge of the hearth, flipping through the pages full of the single word, all running together into one chanting mantra. "No signs that could tell you what might have caused the change in heart, or who she might be talking about." John shrugged, "But no little squabble could result in this kind of fury in a diary she obviously took great care of." He pursed his lips and flipped through the diary but the rest of the pages were blank, surviving its author. In the back pages, John frowned and ran his fingers over the back panel of paper that covered the inside of the hardbound cover. It was raised and felt odd and he sat up, reaching into his pocket and muttering, "Read this...in a book a long time ago, something clever people used to do." John opened his pocket knife and fitted it to the edge of the inner paper panel, slitting it open to find a folded piece of yellowed paper. He opened it and handed it to Sherlock with another frown. "It's gibberish...not even English, Gaelic maybe? It’s just symbols." He closed his pocket knife and placed it back into his pocket when he heard a noise from upstairs. It sounded like a great stack of books scattering and falling about on the third floor. John stood up, tossing the diary onto Sherlock's lap as he reached under the back of his jumper and pulled out the army pistol, keeping it pointed at the ground as he flipped the safety off and stared for the stairs. "Are you coming?" He whispered. They weren't alone in the castle. Someone or something had snuck in, either through a backdoor or some crack in the wall, he didn't know. Or maybe it was all in his head and a stack of books had just fallen as it had sounded like. Better to be safe than sorry he supposed.   
  
Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, John dipped his head to look up the long flight but saw nothing. He kept along the wall and walked quietly up the steps, avoiding the one that had creaked earlier and pointing it out for Sherlock before they continued up together. Perhaps it was whoever was fabricating these rumors about the place and making it not sell. John gripped the pistol in both hands and angled it up as he slid around the corner on the second floor, glancing into their open guest bedroom doors as they passed them and started up the third level stairs. He glanced both ways down the hall but saw no one. It was colder up here and John shivered in his sweater. The library door was ajar and something shifted inside, like a book sliding against another and John crept up to the open doorway, pressing himself against the wall and pushing the door open further to have a look inside. It was unoccupied but on a far shelf across the room, three shelves close to the floor had been emptied, the books scattered in all directions across the floor, still settling against the rugs from the sudden dumping. Frowning, John looked around for hiding places but there weren't many, the furniture was sparse aside from two couches, the books, and another fireplace.   
  
John lowered his weapon and moved towards the windows but they were shut and firmly locked. Besides, you'd have to be a monkey to scale up to the third floor from the ground. "Odd..." He murmured his voice soft and perplexed. The room felt...profoundly sad and John gasped as the temperature lowered considerably, shivering in his jumper again. Something brushed against his pant leg and he brought the gun up again, turning around and looking behind himself. There was no one there...but a hand had clutched at his pant leg for a second before letting go again, he was sure of it. "Sherlock...we need to leave." He whispered, feeling that hollow ache a person got in their chest before tears came. The atmosphere was horrible, but the sorrow slowly dissipated, making the room feel like a deflated balloon. "What's that?" John noticed the empty shelves of the bookcase, as Sherlock had no doubt as well. There were more of the scribbles from the note he'd found in the diary scrawled with ink into the back of the bookcase.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock raised his head from his tea when John questioned his drug theory. He already knew it was flawed but he was clinging to it as an explanation for what was going on around them. “It is one of the few things that can logically explain what is going on here. If it is not in the air, it must be coming from somewhere else. John, there cannot be ghosts in this place. There _cannot_ be. That is the only explanation unless you drugged me yourself.” He threw his arms up dramatically, looking away from John. Sherlock would not accept even smallest thought that there might actually be hauntings taking place here. It went against his logic and reasoning, against his natural grain for the provable. Before he came here today, he was almost positive what going on here. Yet as soon as he got to observe the place, his opinions were starting to change and he didn’t like the shape these facts were forming into.   
  
He stayed quiet as his friend analyzed the book to his best abilities. “You can’t tell who she is directing her writing to but I can. To be correct, she is not writing it toward any particular person. Judging by the way the word was written over and over again, it was meant for everyone who ever displeased the girls. Teenage girls are unstable due to hormonal imbalances in their body and minds. It could be a possible cause of natural hormones, however, that is clearly not the case. Her mental stability was fine up until that point. Something happened or she witnessed something traumatic and she must have become psychotic.” Sherlock spoke quickly as he continued to cling to his reasoning for answers to this madness. While he sipped more of his tea he watched as John sliced open the back panel of the diary.   
  
As John pulled out a piece of paper from the back of the book, Sherlock stood up to get a better look. The symbols were fairly familiar; he had read about these marking somewhere. However, before he could examine them more closely, his head snapped in the direction of the sound they both heard. _The library…_ Whatever happened up there, it was certainly not going to be safe. Someone was up there, possibly the same girl who had snuck into the castle before when he’d been in the children’s room. But he didn’t have a very keen feeling about this one. He managed to catch the diary that John threw at him, shoving it into the front of his pants on his hip. A smile etched across his face and he nodded at John, “You’re not going up there alone, _mother_.” He teased before he followed John up the staircase, staying close behind the good doctor.   
  
It was rather quiet now but Sherlock stayed hidden as he kept behind John until they reached the library. Already knowing they wouldn’t find the culprit, he walked into the room before John. While John went off to look into hiding places, Sherlock was busy examining the books. Whoever or whatever had done this was strong and was capable of doing this all in a matter of moments. No little girl could have shoved all these books to the floor and had time to make her escape before the both of them would have caught her. Slowly, Sherlock approached the shelves that had been emptied, his eyes scanning their empty hallows for clues. There was a reason why only these three shelves were targeted but why? His eyes narrowed as he peered into the deep, dark empty shelves and that’s when he saw the symbols. They were the same symbols that he had observed on the piece of paper John had found. So…the only question was what were they and what were they saying? Sherlock reached up and touched the markings, ignoring John’s warning. These markings weren’t fresh; they had been painted into the wood a very long time ago. A series of facts clicked into place in his head and he turned around to face John again. He knew what these markings were and Sherlock gave John a smug smile motioned to the bookshelves, indicating the scribbled symbols, “I have figured these out; what these markings are. These people were absolutely mad!” He laughed softly and as he spoke, the bookshelf behind him began to move and tremble, tilting towards him slowly as it was tipped from the wall. Yet there wasn’t a single sound, no creaking or groaning, or even the sound of the books sliding forward on the shelves...

 

~ * ~

 

John had bristled downstairs at the offhand remark that he could have possibly drugged Sherlock. "Right," he said acidly, his head moving from side to side as he spoke, "I drugged you myself to bring you to a castle to make you think it was haunted, when it is _me_ who is trying to get you _off_ the drugs, or did you forget that." He ignored Sherlock's mothering comment at the bottom of the stairs, too wrapped up in his senses as they moved forward.   
  
Now, as John puzzled over what had touched his leg, maybe it had been a mouse... a very tall mouse---Sherlock was set to examining the bookshelves. He didn't know what the symbols were and didn't have long to contemplate them himself when the room suddenly changed. Its atmosphere shifted from the sad and lonely feeling, to one of hatred and anger. It made John's chest tighten and when he looked up, prepared to demand Sherlock and he leave that very moment, he caught a glimpse of movement. Sherlock had turned with triumph in his eyes, a step forward in the case, but John wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the top of the tall bookshelf, one of those types you had to get a ladder to reach the top three or four shelves for. It was shifting, swaying slightly. Suddenly, the bottom base cracked the sound like a loud clap that stirred John into action.   
  
" _Sherlock!!_ " His voice was deafening in the library with its tall ceilings and stone walls. He dropped the gun, which clattered against the rugs but didn't go off. Without any sign of a limp or any struggle of movement, John dashed forward and reached out a hand in the same moment he reached Sherlock. Books were starting to slide off the shelves, heavy tomes and encyclopedias, falling from a height that could knock a man out. It felt like time had slowed but John was moving fast. He caught up to Sherlock, slid against the carpet and had just enough time to wrap an arm around his friend as they fell, the bookcase crashing down, emptying all its books on top of them, striking mostly John as he covered Sherlock with himself, an arm curled around the brunette's head, keeping it tucked into his shoulder, the other hand braced against the floor. The blow of the case as it hit them knocked him senseless for a while, the weight of the bookcase forcing him down onto his elbow. They were buried in books. John's entire body ached and a gash against the back of his head was starting to slowly bleed, a rivulet sliding around the side of John's head and dropping onto Sherlock's forehead.   
  
"Christ..." John groaned, resting his head on the stone beneath them, the empty shelves of the bookcase resting against the line of his body. With the remnants of adrenaline, John pushed his knees up and wedged the bookcase up a little, "Get out Sherlock...then help...me get this off." Both hands braced into the stone, John looked down at his friend sprawled beneath him. "Are you alright?" He panted; blue eyes pained. "This place...is going to kill us..." His eyes closed for a moment, "Hurry up." He grunted, the strength starting to drain out of his arms and back. It would take some effort on Sherlock's part to dislodge the case enough with John's feeble aide so the doctor might get out from underneath it.

 

~ * ~

 

A loud creaking sound echoed through Sherlock’s ears and he snapped his head around to look back just as the bookshelf was falling down towards him. _Who the bloody hell…_ Sherlock was not going to have enough time before the bookshelf smashed him into the floor. The next few seconds became a blur and the next thing he could hear was the sound of John screaming his name so loudly that it bounced off the ceiling and struck every corner of the library. Sherlock could turn back to John and try to make a run for it, although with his calculations that would be impossible at this point.   
  
The next thing he knew, he was laying on the ground with his body compressed between the army doctor’s form and the hard floor. Sherlock was expecting to feel the point of impact and then most likely pass out from a concussion, but it never came and the tumbling sounds of books settling against the ground around them and the creak of the bookshelf impacting _someone_ was all he heard. The detective opened his eyes slowly; somewhere during the fall he had shut them tightly to brace himself for the impact. In any other situation where he would end up pressed against John’s body, he would be blushing as dark as the red in the Union Jack. Yet, this was no time to get embarrassed. John’s body was protecting his own and Sherlock was more than thankful for this, knowing full well that if the case had knocked into him while standing, there would have been far more damage to his person considering how frail his body was at the moment. When they got out of this mess…he was eating that sandwich John had offered him before. Sherlock didn’t realize it until John shifted that his fists were clutching at the front of the doctor’s shirt.   
  
Now his cheeks were stained a light pink but there was no way he could hide it and right now it was the last thing he was worrying about. “I am fine.” He whispered back softly, staring up into John’s pained blue eyes. The doctor was not the strongest man alive, no doubt he was physically stronger than Sherlock at the moment, but he was not going to walk away from this without at least some scratches. Sherlock knew he had to get his doctor out of this mess and quickly. Carefully, Sherlock moved under John’s frame, getting closer to the floor on his hands and knees and crawling out from under the bookshelf. Once he was out, he pushed himself back up into a standing position. Someone had pushed that bookshelf over, someone was trying to kill him and that someone was going to feel the detective’s wrath. Sherlock didn’t care about that many people, the feelings and emotions that went along with caring for someone were mostly foreign to him. However, when someone did hurt one of his friends, that individual was going to experience a whole different world of pain for his or her troubles. For instance, the man who dared to hurt Mrs. Hudson. What happened to him again? Oh yes, he fell out of the window…a few times. Unfortunately, for the person who hurt John, the doctor’s name was at the top of his list for people he cared about.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes were as quick as a whip, glancing frantically around the room for something to pry the bookshelf up with. He spotted a bench by the wall and whispered to John softly, “Hang in there mate, I will be back in a moment.” Sherlock took off toward the bench, passing near the back of the fallen bookcase where it must have been pushed. He only had a few seconds to look but what he saw did not calm his nerves. There were no finger prints in the light coating of dust over the entire book case. No sign that it had been pushed over at all, no hand prints against the sides or anything. Not only that, but Sherlock noticed bolts sticking up from the bottom of the case’s wooden base. That case had been _bolted_ to the floor and it was clear that the bolts had not been taken out before the shelf had fallen over for they had remained in the stone floor while the book case had toppled under some great force.

  
Sherlock ran over to the bench and picked it up. Whoever had pushed over the tall case was inhumanly strong or extremely clever to develop some sort of device to dislodge the case from the wall mechanically. The detective lifted up the bench and kept it underneath his arm while running back over to the isle where John was. Yet as he started to move back down towards the top edge of the case near John’s head, a movement caught his eye from the dark recesses of the library. The figure he saw was shadowed by the darkness but it wasn’t all that difficult to make out the shape of a body, a person standing alone. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he crouched down near the top of the bookcase. Quickly, he leaned back down underneath the shelves and, struggling, he tried to lift it up higher by his own strength.

  
It took a few tries but eventually he managed to get it high enough that he could slip the bench under the lip of the case to hold it up high enough that John might slip out from beneath it. Sherlock’s eyes flicked back towards that darkened corner where he’d seen someone, tempted to call out and meet the perpetrator. Bu Sherlock was not going to leave John underneath the bookcase while he apprehended the stranger, so he reached down and offered his friend his hand. “Come on!” Once he felt John’s hand wrap around his, he pulled on John’s arm slowly tugging him out from beneath the fallen bookcase. As soon as John free and lying on the stone floor panting, Sherlock’s eyes darted towards the shadows of the library. “Wait here John…I will be back.” He whispered in a low voice, pulling his fallen blanket out from under all the scattered books and draping it over John as he got to his feet.   
  
Sherlock edged away from the rubble, his gaze scanning the room. Whoever was responsible for this was back here somewhere but as Sherlock walked further into the dark library, it became harder to see anything at all. It would have been a smart idea to grab a flashlight but there was no time and he wouldn’t leave John alone while the doctor was recovering. The detective was dead on set on making this person pay for such a sorry attempt on his life. He glanced back behind himself towards the glow of the single workmen’s lamp that was lit near the door, making sure John was still alright where he’d left him on the cold, stone floor. Sherlock turned back and continued moving through the darkness slowly, taking out his cellphone to use as a light as he passed the crumbling hole in the wall, no longer providing light in the mid-evening gloom. Up ahead he could see the stone wall. A smile crossed his face. _Nowhere to hide._ As he got closer and closer to the far side of the dark library, his phone suddenly shut off. Battery must have died; he hadn’t charged it since they left London. Sherlock tried to see what was in front of him but the darkness here was thick. It wasn’t exactly pitch black; he could see faint outlines of what was in front of him. However, the detective was stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the sound of someone breathing heavily. Each breath sounded heavy and wet, he could almost hear saliva dripping from the owner’s open mouth. An odd dampness surrounded his left hand, bone-chilling and slick.   
  
Before he could try and find what it was, he could hear the sound of soft pattering footsteps leading away from him and back towards John. _No way in hell…_ Sherlock turned back on his heels and sprinted back towards the fallen bookshelf. It was a distraction; the culprit was trying to distract Sherlock while he got rid of John instead. The thought sounded extremely stupid but Sherlock was not going to leave John alone for a single moment in this place anymore. Sherlock ran back into the lit part of the room, panting when he saw John was alright. “John, we have to get out of the library.” He breathed heavily, brushing his left hand against his forehead and into his wavy hair, smearing blood all over his face. Where had that come from? He stared at it in shock for it wasn’t his own blood; he wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

 

~ * ~

 

John winced as Sherlock clutched at him, hearing the wood of the bookcase groan...or maybe that was his own voice groaning, he wasn't sure. His head throbbed spectacularly and he squinted through the pain. If he wasn't in such a situation, he might have had a moment to contemplate the flush to his friend's cheeks when he looked up at him. John realized the blood on the brunette’s forehead was his own, not Sherlock's. "Christ." He hissed again, his arms beginning to shake, "Hurry." He murmured again as Sherlock started to move. The case slipped a little farther and John sunk back down onto his elbows when Sherlock finally managed to slide free, hearing his words. "Heh..." His voice was muffled, even to his own ears, "you've never called...me mate before." He grimaced, the strain on his back becoming unbearable. Sherlock returned a few moments later and when he felt a little of the weight ease off of his back, John rallied the rest of his strength and helped Sherlock lift the case as much as he could with his already screaming back. He'd be lucky if he didn't need a brace after this...   
  
A hand groped forward for him, Sherlock's voice filter down to him from above. John just wanted to collapse right then and there, the weight gone from his back and supported by the bench slipped under the top of the fallen case. Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and half crawled, half drug himself out from beneath the piece of furniture, sliding across the floor as Sherlock pulled him free from the rubble. John fell onto his side and rolled up onto his elbow, reaching up to the back of his head and touching it gingerly, feeling the gash there. "Damn..." He whispered, looking up to see Sherlock frowning off into the middle distance. "What...?" He didn't see whatever Sherlock was seeing, looking in the direction his friend was facing. It was still early evening, but the library was dark since there were very few windows and only a single lamp in the room. John blinked as a blanket was swept around him and Sherlock stepped away from him in pursuit of something he saw. "A-Alright..." John panted softly, rolling onto his back with a soft cry of pain. He would have very bad bruises; he could already feel that much.   
  
He hadn't been laying there long when Sherlock returned with a near panicked expression on his face, though his face went blank again when he saw John still lying where he was on the floor. "Yes...agreed." John murmured, "I said that earlier, but then..." He motioned to the fallen bookcase, planting a hand on the bench that was supporting it and using it for balance to get to his feet. He was hunched over slightly, a hand to the small of his back, slowly straightening up with a pained expression. "Going to be a cripple at this rate..." He hissed, finding his gun on the floor where he'd dropped it in his haste to get to Sherlock. It was painful to bend to get it, but he managed it and moaned softly when he was straight again. "Sherlock...you're sure you're not hurt?" He couldn't remember if that was his blood on Sherlock’s face from before, or new blood.   
  
Out in the hallway, John pulled the door to the library shut behind them and turned to face his friend, walking with a pained expression and leaning on the banister as they moved downstairs again. "The med kit Sherlock, where did I put it?" John murmured, the blanket draped over his shoulders hanging off to one side, sliding along the floor. "You're...going to have to fix me up; I can't get to the back of my head very well. Doubt I could even raise my arms up...that high right now." John set his gun on top of his bag and leaned heavily into the doorjamb of his guest bedroom. He shivered even though it was warmer the lower to the ground floor you were, the grand fireplace in the first floor living area warming the first two floors of the castle. Closing his eyes, John went to lean his head back but winced as the wood touched his wound.   
  
John's body ached and he sat down on the bare bones bed, "That case Sherlock...it was way too heavy to have just fallen over, or been pushed by anyone small. The base cracked, like it was forced." John frowned, leaning up against one of the posts of the bed frame, resting his head against it. The cool wood felt good on his throbbing temple. "Whoever they are....they don't want us here Sherlock, that's quite obvious." John tucked his cold hands between his knees and closed his eyes again. "I thought..." He fell silent again, because it was plain and clear what he had thought. If he hadn't reached Sherlock in time, if the other male had gone down with that bookcase, there was no doubt in John's mind that the shock of impact would either have killed his friend, or seriously maimed him. If Sherlock hadn't fallen right, he could've snapped his very neck, or cracked his head hard enough on the stone floor to cause him to bleed out all over the library. John was pale, an almost sickly color, and he felt a little sick as the adrenaline faded and left him weary beyond all cause. His hands shook from the rush of it and he frowned, looking down at his open palms in his lap. He had dealt with the effects of adrenaline all his life, first in the war, then in emergencies, in chases and danger with Sherlock...but he had never shaken before, he was always solid as a rock. Why now? But he knew why now...because it had been Sherlock. He had collapsed by the body he had thought to be his friend three years ago, overcome with grief and shock in the moment, but he hadn't shaken then, he hadn't had the time to. He hadn't been able to prevent that supposed death, but he had had a moment to prevent this instance and he had, and a mountain of relief hit him like a wave and made his eyes sting. John blinked once; _hard_ , and let out a long breath, looking up at the ceiling. "That was... a bit not good." He murmured. "Nobody goes anywhere by themselves now, alright? We can't be sure which one of us is a target and just have to assume it's the both of us."

 

~ * ~

 

It took only a few seconds for the younger male to control his breathing and bring it down to a slower pace. However, instead of worrying about the blood smudged all over his face, his eyes were drawn to his friend struggling to get up off of the floor. Sherlock hadn’t noticed how badly injured John was before and his ice blue eyes scanned his friend’s body. John was not a beast of a man, considering he wasn’t a teenager anymore nor was he in the army. But during most of the cases they had done together, Sherlock had never seen John as hurt as he was now. A strange feeling tugged at him inside of his chest as he watched the struggling doctor. It was almost as if someone was pulling on taut violin strings inside his chest. He stood there, almost frozen in front of John, watching as his only friend struggled to get up onto his feet. It was his fault that John was injured in such a way. If Sherlock had been smarter or had been _strong_ and not allowed himself to become so… _emaciated,_ he would have been able to withstand the force of the bookcase’s falling or not even been there in the first place.   
  
He clutched his hands into fists, his knuckles turning white from the force. Every muscle in his body tensed in discomfort because John was hurt. Not any ordinary injury from a scrape or a punch, but actually wounded. His face remained blank while his eyes flared with guilt and concern. John was right; they should have left this room when John had said. In these few moments, Sherlock had completely forgotten the case. His mind was set on one thing and one thing alone. The younger male stepped closer to the doctor, leaning down a bit to give John his shoulder for support as he slid an arm around John’s back. “You already have a cane at home. If you become a cripple, then at least you’ll be prepared. Hey, at least if you go to the hospital you can have some cute nurses wheel you around in a wheelchair. Cripple or no cripple, you will charm more girls.” His voice had a softer tone than usual, even if he was teasing. While his face was as emotionless as a rock, his voice was laced with worry. 

Sherlock kept to John’s side, supporting his friend as much as he could. ”I am fine John. I am not the one with a bloody gash in the back of his head. Doctors aren’t supposed to get hurt, they are supposed to help other people, not bleed all over the floor. You are a god awful doctor John, I suggest you quit.” He tried to sound cheeky but only managed to sound stern. Once they got out of the library, Sherlock’s head turned and gazed back over his shoulder into the room before John shut the door. Sherlock was starting to dislike this place. As John had said before, there was something strange about this castle. It was not safe and John was already injured and they hadn’t even passed half the night yet. Sherlock did not believe in ghosts, it was unreasonable, but now…now John was hurt and bleeding. No matter what it was trying to kill them; it was going to have to face Sherlock first.

  
He kept his eyes on John’s movements, examining him closely for any signs that he might faint. John was strong but he had suffered a great blow to the head and Sherlock was no doctor but he knew what an injury to the head could mean. Concussion, amnesia, cracked skull, internal bleeding; these were just a few of the possible outcomes to such an injury. His stomach launched up into his throat at the thought of his friend dying in a place like this. Sherlock’s eyes kept glancing back between John’s head and the path in front of them. Aside from the worry and anger, Sherlock was more than a little confused. John was his only good friend, but did friends worry about each other to such an extent as this? Sherlock was never good at relationships of any kind, so he had no answer. Everything was easier when it was other people, when it was someone else’s problem he could pick apart and puzzle over. “You left the kit in your bag, John.” This was not a good sign; the doctor was forgetting things he had done not long ago. Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s shoulder, not encouraged by the possible signs of trauma or a concussion effecting his companion.   
  
“I got it, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock mocked him lightly, trying to distract John from his pain. As soon as they entered the room, Sherlock let John go and went off to John’s bag to grab the first aid kit and a flashlight. Quickly he opened it and glanced through the contents. It would do just fine; John had kept the kit up to date as he could expect he would. Sherlock turned back to John and walked to the edge of the empty bed frame; staring at John’s gash from a distance. It didn’t look that good, even from a few steps away. He could see the spots of blood soaking through John’s dirty blond hair and he flinched in sympathy.

  
Sherlock slowly climbed onto the empty bed springs behind John, holding onto the first aid kit. Sherlock needed to find out how bad the gash was, not just by appearance (which was god awful) but how it was effecting John. If there was any damage to the brain John would be experiencing troubles accessing his memory and other symptoms. However, Sherlock did not want John to worry about having a concussion, so Sherlock tried the most indirect route to get the information he needed. ”Stop moving! I need to look at it. Jeez…I was more complacent when you made me throw out my only bottle of cocaine. Do you know how much that cost by the way? I already used most of it but really John, it was important to me. Now you’re making me go to rehab... Mycroft is one bloody bastard for helping you pay for it.”   
  
Sherlock spoke mostly lies and half-truths, wanting to see if John would pick up on any of them and have the presence of mind to call him out on his falsehoods. If he knew the whole truth, well then at least he didn’t have a concussion. Most likely he would think Sherlock was out of his mind, but when was his sanity not in question by the good doctor? Sherlock turned on the flashlight and pointed it at the gash in John’s scalp to get a better look at the wound. It wasn’t that Sherlock was squeamish, but when he saw the gash, his eyes began to tear up and his stomach clenched like he might be sick. The wound on his friend kept causing such horrible reactions. Honestly, if he could, Sherlock would take John’s place and be the injured one bleeding from the back of his head.  
  
Sherlock opened the kit and took out a disinfectant wipe, carefully beginning to clean the wound, using his other hand to brush the hair out of the gash. He decided to keep talking, hopefully distracting John from the pain he might be inadvertently causing the man, “John…the bookcase was bolted down to the floor. The bolts weren’t unscrewed either. Whoever pushed it over was not an ordinary person of an ordinary build.” Sherlock left it at that, deciding not to tell John about not finding any prints in the dust patterns on the case.   
  
Once the wound was clean, he took out an anti-biotic cream and dabbed it on a gauze pad. Carefully, he pressed the pad against the wound so that it was covered and he took the gauze wrap and began winding it around John’s head; from the wound to his forehead and back. He did this a few times until it was secure, hoping John wouldn’t actually be needing stitches. “Well, you are not leaving this room for a while.” Sherlock commented in a clipped tone of voice, reaching up to John’s forehead and releasing a few strands of hair from beneath the wrapped bandage. Confused by his almost affectionate reaction, he quickly drew his hand away and busied himself with putting all the supplies back into the medical kit.

 

~ * ~

 

John had snorted at Sherlock's remarks, "I won't be in a wheel chair Sherlock, but my cane might help at the moment actually." Too bad he hadn't brought it. In fact, since he'd raced across Baker Street with Sherlock in pursuit of Moran, he hadn't needed that cane anymore. Until now, that was. The concern in his friend's voice wasn't lost on John and he leaned into Sherlock a little more, knowing this moment would be short with such a high functioning 'sociopath'. "Sure, get right on that..." He grunted after Sherlock's comment about him quitting the medical field and stopping his bleeding about. "I'd stop if I could."   
  
Sherlock found his med kit in his bag and brought it round, casting a jibe his way, but John was too tired to protest much to it, sighing, "Oh stuff it..." His eyes closed for a moment, but he forced them open again, knowing that if he did have a concussion, sleep would be a bad thing. John flinched as the flashlight Sherlock found illuminated the dim room, reaching up to shade his eyes as Sherlock climbed onto the bed behind him and reached out to push the hair away at the back of his head, shining the light on his wound. John dipped his head forward helpfully, gritting his teeth. He heard a small intake of breath from Sherlock and he would have almost cataloged it as a gasp, but he didn't pursue it, frowning as Sherlock started up a conversation.   
  
"What...what are you talking about?" John frowned at the floor, "I _know_ that wasn't your only bottle, there's got to be more squirreled away, which we'll be dealing with when we get back to London." John hissed as a disinfecting wipe touched his tender skin, all the breath whooshing out of his lungs at the pure sting of it. "And who said anything about rehab...or Mycroft. We didn't slap you in rehab the first time...I _am_ rehab." He snorted, almost shaking his head but finding the motion made his head throb harder. John closed his eyes, a little surprised at the care Sherlock took in cleaning and dressing his head. "No... _ordinary_ person, you say." John frowned, "So an extra-ordinary person...or persons. Or are you saying," He looked up as Sherlock moved out from behind him, "that it could be ghosts after all?" John still looked a little skeptical, but after the things they had experienced and the feelings he got from the rooms they explored, John wouldn't need to be convinced too much by now.   
  
There was a pause, and then Sherlock's fingers slipped beneath the bandage around his forehead to sweep his trapped bangs out from under it. John swallowed, watching the moment of confused realization light behind those grey eyes he had come to know and read so much better. John closed his eyes, still feeling the warmth of those fingers against his brow. Sherlock rarely touched anyone, not skin-to-skin anyway, and since his death, John hadn't realized how he had craved it. Such a simple thing; he almost reached out to snag that hand and pull it back, but to do so would open a whole new can of issues that John wasn't sure he was ready to face just yet. "If I'm not leaving this room, neither are you...I don't want to lay here worrying about how you might have gotten yourself into trouble somewhere I can't hear you call." John used the bedpost to pull himself up onto his feet, finding his sleeping bag and pulling it out of its case, letting it fall open across the stone floor. "Heh...Harry and I used to do inch-worm races in these when we were kids." John muttered, unzipping the sleeping bag and sliding himself into it, finding that the pain wasn't so bad if he lay on his side. "You need to wash your face..." John murmured, looking up at Sherlock from his place on the floor. At this angle, John noticed a few things he hadn't about his friend. One, he was more legs than torso...and two; there was something in his friend's pocket. "Sherlock, what's that?" He motioned up at him with the back of his hand. "Looks like a...doll?" The very word creeped him out.  
  
When Sherlock tugged it free, John looked pale again, "Why does it look like you...?" He had heard of voodoo stuff a long time ago, he had even seen some nasty stuff to do with an Ouija board when he had been fifteen. This was taking a turn from ghosts and goblins and into a realm of demons and witchcraft, some more...serious things he had a hard time dismissing. After all, John had read his medical history books; he knew the differences between medical science, alchemy, and plain devil's brew. John held a hand up, wanting to inspect the doll closer after Sherlock had. "Eat a sandwich, you're weak." He muttered as a passing thought as he turned the doll over. The clothes were exact and finely made...it was beyond eerie. "Sherlock, I don't think we can even solve this." He huffed, setting the doll down on the ground. "I mean, we have little to no leads, at least not any that you've chosen to share with me." John sighed. "And so far, all personal experiences point to a far more serious matter than just creaks and groans of an old house. Sherlock, this place..." He never used this word lightly, remembering the tale of the pigs from the Bible, the one where Christ supposedly cast the demons into these pigs that proceeded to toss themselves off a cliff, "it's possessed." It might have been the pain, or the lingering fear for his friend's life...but John was a little more susceptible to speculation. His head ached and he sat up slowly, motioning to the med kit. "Could you give me aspirin or something, anything to make this pain stop?" He whispered his eyelids heavy. The pain, combined with these new conflicting feelings cropping up in regards to his friend; were too much to deal with without some form of pain relief.   
  
"What are we even going to do now? Wait out the rest of the night?" It was early evening, the sun having sunk low enough to cast most of the upper floors of the castle into gloomy shadow.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but grin when John caught on to the lies. So, there was no brain trauma from the impact of the bookcase, which calmed him down slightly. He was still worried about his friend but at least he did not have to think about him passing out with a concussion. In response he only said, “Oh? I must have forgotten.” He smiled softly, still not very happy but it stopped him from guarding his friend with a pitch fork or something. Sherlock ignored John’s comment about the ghosts. He still could not bring himself to admit that such a thing might exist, even after everything they had seen and felt that day. Softly, he mumbled to himself, “After eliminating the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”   
  
Sherlock moved to sit on the floor, leaning back against the bed stand. His sleeping bag was in the other guest bedchambers, along with his bag. Sherlock was not going to leave this room for a while, not unless John was coming with him. In most situations, he would hate to admit his fears yet he knew John was experiencing the same fears. Despite that, fears were only something that an ordinary person’s mind created due to fanciful flights of imagination. Sherlock is no ordinary person and therefore, he should not be experiencing this deep seeded fear born of imaginative thoughts. His icy eyes rose to meet John’s when he mentioned the both of them not leaving this bedchamber. A soft chuckle left his chapped lips, “John, I do not _always_ get myself into trouble.” He joked, knowing full well everything he seemed to ever do invoked trouble of some sort. After all, shoving your nose and mind into someone else’s business wasn’t always readily accepted. “Race; in sleeping bags? I imagine your sister beat you quite easily.”   
  
Sherlock’s left brow rose when John told him he needed to wash his face. What was on his face? Sherlock raised his right hand and brushed it against his forehead. Whatever it was it was mostly dry. Oh yes, the blood! Sherlock went back into the first aid kit and took out another disinfectant wipe. There was no way he was leaving these bedchambers after what had happened in the library, so he would just have to clean it all off this way. He began wiping the blood off his forehead until his eyes were drawn to his left hand which was also covered in dried blood. However, this was not John’s blood. He didn’t say anything to John but he simply cleaned off his hand as well. This place was just getting stranger and stranger.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s to his coat pocket, noting the doll tucked innocently at his hip. Carefully, he reached down and grabbed the small thing from his pocket. It was a doll very similar to one of the many he had found in the girls’ room. Its face and hands were made out of glass and its eerily icy blue eyes stared at the beholder with a dead and empty gaze, a noose hanging around its neck. Everything was exact, even down to the bandage wrapped around his right index finger. Sherlock didn’t even blink as he stared at it. It must have gotten in his pocket while he was in the library but how? “Someone is trying to scare us.” He stated blandly, trying to brush it off as nothing.   
  
As he said this, he could almost feel a cold shiver running up his spine. Sherlock gave the doll to John without any hesitation when he asked for it. The longer he held the thing, the colder he seemed to feel. Sherlock sighed when John mentioned eating. After touching that doll, he did not want to eat for a long while but John was right. After what had happened in the library, he knew he had to eat something. Sherlock groaned childishly, reaching over to grab John’s bag and pull out a roast beef sandwich. He unwrapped it and took a bite out of it, chewing mechanically and it took a while for him to resign himself to swallowing, his starving stomach almost pleading it while his mind rebelled at the idea. “Every case is solvable, this place just has no realistic evidence intact, it is a rather cold case. There were no prints on the bookcase John. The thing was covered in dust and yet there was no sign that anyone even touched it. Earlier, when you found me in the girls’ room? There was something wrong in there. Believe me or not, but John I will not leave this case unsolved. Something is here causing these… _incidents_ to happen. Ghost or person, I will get to the bottom of this one.” Sherlock finished the sandwich, regretting he had eaten it because now he felt like being sick.   
  
Sherlock reached behind him and got the first aid kit and tossed it over to John’s side. He would have offered him the bottle of morphine he had saved but John would likely throw a fit. Sherlock then pulled out the young girl’s diary, “We only have one option now John. We must find out what happened to this family. There must be some form of clue in this diary. John, you remember those symbols in the library, correct?” Sherlock stood now and began walking back and forth slowly in the room. He flicked open the book and began reading through some of the pages. ”They were symbols of an ancient Wiccan cult. This group believed in summoning spirits. No, not just spirits but _demons_. Demons that took on abnormal human forms and survived off the souls of virgins in this town.” He spoke quickly as he read through the pages. “Saying, that this is…a haunting or demon of sorts there would have to be a summoning preformed to call out for the demon. The old woman, Mrs. Brennan, said that the family lived rather happily here until around the time the son was killed. Therefore, if this was some form of… _haunting_ …the creature would have to have been summoned before that time. That means the girls would have been present around the time the summoning occurred.” He spoke quickly, flicking through the pages until he crossed one of interest. ”There! Here!” His features lit with his excitement and he cleared his throat and adopted a poorly registered little girl’s voice, “’Sister and I were exploring the library today. It was fun! We ate sweets and climbed the ladder that Mother told us not to touch! If only she-‘Blah _, blah, blah, blah, blah_! Boring…more boring girl’s talking about their problems. Oh! Here we go: ‘We found an old book behind some others in the back of the library where Father forbade us from going. But it has all these interesting symbols in it! It must be a secret book with treasures in it! We took it out of the library and snuck it away. It will be our little secret.’” He snapped the diary shut with an air of finality and triumph written all over his face, his voice laced with sarcasm, “ _Charming!_ ”


	6. Only The Good Die Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear, Ghosts, and Demons...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Not for the faint of heart perhaps. There are some graphic descriptions of paranormal and demonic twistedness as well as some heinous murder. Don't worry, there are no major character deaths in this fanfic.

If there was one person in the world who could solve a case like this, it was probably Sherlock. John was just beginning to hope he would be quick about it. He longed for his warm bed, a hot cup of tea, and some undisturbed sleep. He kept glancing at the doll with the noose around its neck, Sherlock's words about something or someone trying to kill them making his blood run cold. There certainly was a lot of proof towards it and he suddenly remembered something as Sherlock told him about his experiences in the girls' bedchambers earlier that day.  
  
"During the tour...before Mrs. Brennan took us up to the third floor, I peeked into the little boy's bedroom." John reached back to rub his neck, wincing at its stiffness. He could do with a good rub down, he knew. "It felt really sad in there, but...I thought I saw something move from the corner of my eye, but when I looked, there was nothing. Then, out on the driveway when we were seeing her off, I looked up Sherlock," John lifted his blue eyes up to Sherlock, his expression weary, "I saw the outline of a figure, a faceless boy, in one of the upper floor windows." He absently reached out to take the noose off the doll of Sherlock, laying it on the floor beside the thing.  
  
As Sherlock got up to pace and read, John leaned up against the bedpost beside himself, not wanting to lie down because the floor hurt his back. John caught the first aid kit as it was tossed to him and he opened it, swallowing a few pills from a bottle without water, grimacing at their dry slide down his throat. But he really didn't feel like getting up to go downstairs for the water that was left by the hearth. Closing the med kit, John stood up as Sherlock ended his rant with an imitation of a little girl's voice speaking of a demonic book. "Demon summoners...lovely, sounds like a vacation." John huffed, "Suppose we should go look for some evidence to back that up." He was so tired; this case was one of the worst, by far. Worse than the Baskerville case even. John reached down to his bag and slipped his gun into the back waistband of his jeans, reaching up to lightly touch a long, paper thin cut that ran along the line of Sherlock's cheek bone. Probably from a book as it had fallen, the pages slicing like little micro knives. "At least you're better off than me." He smiled a tight smile and dropped his hand, walking slowly out into the hallway, keeping a hand to the wall as he turned to go up the stairs. "Do you think it's in their room...?" He really didn't want to go back in there, his look in had been enough to chill him to the core.  
  
On the third floor, John paused at the end of the hall and gripped Sherlock's sleeve as he joined him, still clutching that diary. "Sherlock..." John's voice was tense and low, reaching out to brace the other hand against the wall as he stared down the hall. All the doors were wide open, though they had shut them earlier during their explorations, especially the girls' room. John swallowed and squared his jaw and shoulders, the steely resolve of a soldier sliding into place. "Well, they certainly made it easy for us to have a peek." He hobbled over to the boy's room, which was closest to the stairs. John glanced inside, then across the hall at the girls' room. Frowning, he looked ahead to the play room, the door open there as well. "Where do you think they've hidden it...?" He didn't expect to find anything much himself since he had just taken some painkillers, though he did his part, glancing into each room. But his eyes strayed from the girls' bedchambers quickly, feeling extremely uncomfortable when he looked there. "I'll take this room, you take the play room I suppose, and we’ll search the girls' room together." John moved into the dead boy's room and took to looking at what he didn't have to bend down or stoop to see. He opened the wardrobe but it was empty and dusty. He picked up the teddy bear, felt for a book inside its large body, but felt nothing. There was a toy chest in the corner and he opened it, looking around inside at the decaying wooden toys.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock nodded at John when he suggested that they should search the rooms upstairs. So far the book was their only clue to the events that were occurring. Whether this was caused by a man or a demon, Sherlock wanted to solve this case. There was a certain amount of determination in his eyes. Yet, how much more of this madness he could take was another thing to consider; that and how much more could John stand? A shiver ran up Sherlock’s spine as John ran his finger along a cut on his cheek. His cold blue eyes turned and glanced at John curiously. He bit his lower lip when John said he was better off than he was for guilt shot through him rather quickly. Was this how John felt when he had dislocated his jaw? Sherlock reached down and grabbed the flashlight, clutching it in his hand firmly. He would have to be careful of John, his friend was weak. Sherlock’s body was already weak and now that John was no longer able to carry himself as he used to, this was going to have to be played wisely. “Most likely, when a child is trying to hide something they will often hide it somewhere close to them where they can check on it often, under their beds or in their closets for example.” Sherlock spoke softly, following John upstairs.  
  
The more he stayed in this house, the more he hated it. His head turned, hearing John call his name softly. All the doors were open wide on this floor; in both directions down the hallway and Sherlock felt another shudder race down his spine. Whoever was here knew what they were after. Their predator was mocking them, he could almost hear a voice calling to them in the distance, _Come and get me_. However, this did not make Sherlock want to quit, a Holmes wasn’t a quitter. “It wants us to find it. Whatever it is, whoever it is, it is playing with us. However, we are not going to be its prey.” Sherlock did not speak softly. Oddly enough, he spoke directly to the darkness within this castle as if trying to challenge it. Oh and did it respond. Sherlock shivered as a cold air crept across his body.  
  
Sherlock nodded at John when he set a plan to examine all the rooms in this hallway, he couldn’t disagree. The little boy’s room looked the safest of them all so there was nothing wrong with that one. He glanced at John’s back as he walked away before Sherlock went off to the play room by himself. There was an eerily silence in the room yet nothing that screamed it was directly out of place. Sherlock began searching through the room, lifting up blankets and anything that the book could be under or hidden in. He opened up the toy chest and boxes of blocks and shuffled through them. He even felt the stuffed animals to make sure there was nothing in them. The last thing he did was to examine the floor with the flashlight to search for any lose stones. When he found none he let out a sigh and went back into the hallway. Without even looking toward the girls’ room he turned and began walking toward the little boy’s room to find John. The door was shut…Sherlock paused for a second, swearing he could feel someone staring at him from behind. Someone was in the little girls’ room. Sherlock did not look behind him, rather wishing he had John’s gun before he even thought of looking through that room. He continued on, reaching for the closed door to the young boy’s chambers, opening the door quickly. “John?” 

 

~ * ~

 

John sat down in the little squat rocking chair when he'd searched every nook of the room, which was already pretty bare and Spartan for a kid's room. He supposed when the boy died, the family must have taken out most of the personal effects of the boy's and put them in storage. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he was about to get up and find Sherlock so they could continue to search the other rooms...but when he looked up, John leaped to his feet, inducing a shooting pain that shot up his spine and radiated out through his injured back. He hissed in pain, hunching forward, his hand to his back, but his eyes remained on the very solid, very real looking little boy in old Victorian style dress. He had on his buckle shoes, the pearly white tights, the navy blue breeches and the collared shirt with a small cap set on his head. He was pale, dark purple bruises around his eyes, and unblinking. John was breathing hard, "H-Hullo..." He searched the boy's face for any recognition or movement but he was still. "Where did you come from...?" John reached out and used the lip of a dresser to straighten himself up, frowning at the kid as his head slowly lifted, following his movement. "Been in here all this time?"  
  
Suddenly, John remembered that the boy probably spoke Gaelic...if this was a ghost, English would be the last language he would learn, considering the British were just starting to invade the island. "An..." John squinted, trying to remember what little Irish he knew from his school days where he'd had a few Irish classmates. "An bhfuil...de dhith..." John couldn't remember the phrase used for the world help, but he did manage to ask the boy if he needed anything, that was a start.  
  
A scrawny, short little finger lifted and started to point like kids did when they needed something, wanted something. John glanced behind himself at what he thought the child was pointing at, but when he looked back, the child was gone. "No, don't!" He took a few steps forward but that was all he had time for before a heavy blow knocked him senseless. It felt like a physical blow, but nothing had hit him. However, he sunk to his knees with a thud, his hands coming up to protect his head, cradling it as a stab of pain rendered him unconscious...  
  
  
When Sherlock burst into the little child's old room, there was no little boy...but there was no John either. The body of John sat in front of the toy chest, holding two figures mounted on horses in his hands, murmuring softly to them. His voice was a whisper, a rasp like a voice stretched out across a great distance, but it echoed in time with the deeper timbre of John's voice. "Missed you both...good horses..." The bandaged blonde head rose as they registered a visitor and John, yet not John slowly turned his head, but at a slightly awkward angle, a little further than a human neck could comfortably turn. Blue eyes had changed, brightened almost, but the whites of the eyes had turned an inky black, giving the illusion that the irises of the eyes were floating in black abysses. The toy horses dropped from his hands and John was half turned, a hand out to brace on the carpet while the other pointed at Sherlock. "Hated..." unblinking eyes bore into Sherlock's greys, "not welcome...go away, my sisters...mum, hurt you too."  
  
With the same eerie slowness with which they spoke, the possessed and the possessor rose as one, swaying slightly as John's body fought the assault, dark eyes flickered shut for a moment, then opened again. "He is here to claim you. _He_ will take you away...just like mum." John's face contorted for the first time in a semblance of pain instead of the blank slate of the spirits controlled expression. John was fighting it; John was trying to shift to the forefront, trying to assert his will over the being taking over his body.  
  
" _Sher-!_ " There was a choking sound and the expression cleared, John's voice swallowed again and the strange blend of the two continuing to speak, "It's not nice where he takes you...there are no toys." Blackened eyes seemed wet, watery with tears. Black stains slipped from the corners of John's eyes and streaked down the curves of his cheeks, drying like ink into his skin. Hands that were hanging at his sides clenched into shaking fists and John's whole body seemed to seize up, a guttural cough and a gasp sending him back down onto his knees, just a few steps from Sherlock, his arms outstretched along the floor towards his friend's feet. The shudders and shakes worsened and the spirit screamed, " _GOOOOOO AWAAAY!!_ " The voice seemed to get clearer until it was just John's voice screaming through, ending on a sob, gasping wildly for air as if he had been under water for too long. All the tension went out of John's limbs and he collapsed onto the flagstones, the black stains on his cheeks simply clear tear tracks now, more flowing from his eyes to meet them. "Sherlock," he gasped, his eyes flying open and staring in shock at a middle distant place, " _Sherlock!!_ " John's heart had been seized with such overwhelming emotion from the contact with the lost little boy and it flooded through him now, making his skin tingle and his chest ache as if he had been punched there, shouting Sherlock’s name so loudly and looking right through him in his panic.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock paused, staring at John’s figure on the ground. Something was not right here. The air around his friend was different…almost stale. A deathly chill ran up his spine as he heard the mumbling sounds coming from the creature that his friend had become. He dared to take a step forward, “John?” He called out to his friend hoping that there was some way he would find himself back in his flat with John, arguing over something pointless instead of being in this horrible place. His icy eyes widened with a certain amount of confusion and fear. No matter how strong Sherlock was, what he saw in John now was something he could possibly hide his fear of. As John turned his head, Sherlock almost lost what was in his stomach. He stared at the lifeless eyes of…John? That was not John. This place…they should have never come here.  
  
A rush of fear went straight through his body. Whatever was happening to John, he had to stop it somehow. For the first time in his whole life he betrayed his own reasoning. Sherlock took another step forward before the being in John’s body started talking and pointed at him. This was not a person; whatever was in this house was not a living person. Oh, the look on John’s face if he could tell him right now that he believed that what was causing all this was not a living being. His brow rose when the thing said he was not welcome here. Sherlock opened his mouth to ask the being a question but as it started to levitate up off the floor, he snapped his mouth shut again.  
  
Whatever was doing this to John was not violent as of yet and he hoped to keep it that way. However, John’s body was now nearly levitating in the air, his feet barely brushing the dusty rug. He stared in pure confusion for never in his life had the detective been more dumbfounded by such a thing. Then again…this wasn’t physics was it? Sherlock took another cautious step forward. ”Who is this person you speak of?” He called out but received no answer as John’s body gave a shuddering convulse. As soon as John fell towards the floor, Sherlock rushed to his side yet the sound of an ear piercing scream stopped him dead in his tracks. He reached up to cover his ears, waiting until the scream had passed to move, eyes clenched tightly shut and teeth gritted. Sherlock slowly glanced back down at John who was now struggling to breathe. Quickly, in fact almost instantly, the detective slid down onto his knees on the rug next to John. “John? John! It is okay now, just breathe.”  
  
Sherlock reached down, carefully placing his hand over John’s shoulder. “It is alright now John. It has passed. It’s just you and me, John. It is just you and me. No one else is here.” He didn’t know if he was saying this to reassure John or to reassure himself. Sherlock let out a few deep breaths and reached down and helped John sit up, pulling John’s upper body towards himself and bringing the doctor’s head towards his shoulder, grasping onto his jacket as if were he to let go, John would disappear again. “Are you hurt?” He asked John urgently, his eyes scanning the other male’s body closely and intently. He didn’t appear to be hurt but with all that twisting and shaking he’d been doing, there could be some added damage and injury to what John had sustained in the library. With the utmost care, Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and wrapped it around his own shoulder, getting ready to pick the other up off the floor. The detective had had enough of this place. This was the second time that he had almost felt as if he were going to lose John and frankly, that was two times too many. “John…we need to get out of here, okay? We need to get out now. I can’t lift you up but I can help you stand. You can’t drive so I will bring you to the car and I will come back in for our stuff. From there, I will drive us back into town.” Sherlock stared at John’s blue eyes, ignoring the paleness in the blonde man’s face. If he could make certain that he was the only one in danger instead of John than he would have felt the need to stay, but he was not risking the life of his only friend any more than he already had.

 

~ * ~

 

Everything sounded like it was coming through a long tunnel to John, hearing his own voice calling out to his friend as if it weren’t his own but a recording of it. Everything was going numb, right down to his fingertips and toes and John sagged heavily against Sherlock as the other male pulled him in against his shoulder. John's sense of smell was sharp however and as his hearing slowly came back to him, he still had Sherlock's cologne in every gasping breath of air he took. John shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. God was he going to need therapy after this...  
  
 _'-hurt?'_ John blinked, registering Sherlock's voice right beside his ear and finally able to register his surroundings again. He was clutching at the front of Sherlock's wool coat, his face turned into the blue scarf wrapped around his friend's neck, now damp from the tears that had been streaming down his own face. John lifted his head, which felt like it was set on a rubber neck, his heart hammering painfully against his ribcage. "No..." He grunted, shaking his head minutely. He wasn't hurt, not in a physical sense anyway, no more than he already had been. He couldn't remember anything past seeing the child, and then a sharp pain...and now this moment. "Wh-...What..." John's brows plunged into a severe frown as Sherlock shifted his arm around his shoulders, maneuvering them to stand. John's legs were like jam and wobbled under his weight, leaning heavily on Sherlock's support. He shook his head a little, "No...no.." His weight swung and almost brought them both down, his other hand gripping the front of Sherlock's coat again, staring down at the floor as he tried to make the room stop spinning. "We've come...this far," he whispered, "can't let all this...go to waste, we've got to fix this. Figure this out… someone's probably...putting us on." Even though he said the words, he didn't believe them. John locked his knees and leaned away from Sherlock, but his arm remained around his friend's shoulders, his head back to get a look at the other man's face. "The book...what if there's a way to make all of this stop?" He saw the stubborn determination in Sherlock's eyes however and he folded, both in the argument and within Sherlock's hold, his knees sagging under his weight and forcing Sherlock to support most of it for him.  
  
They moved towards the door, making it out into the hallway. "Sherlock, I can't, I won't...I won't be the one thing that comes between you and solving a case." John reached out and gripped the doorjamb of the boy's room, succeeding in anchoring himself to that spot so he could talk. "Sherlock," blue eyes were sharp and clear from the tears he had shed, "We're so close, we have to be. We can't let Mrs. Brennan down. We took this case, and goddammit!" John winced as he cursed, hanging his head as it throbbed, his blood rushing in his ears, "dammit Sherlock, we see a case to its end." He rasped; clearing his throat and gripping Sherlock's opposing shoulder tightly. "Like hell you're going to deposit me in the car and come back in this hellish place _alone_. We'll get our bags...agreed on that, but then we're coming back, alright? We...we still haven't been up to the master bedroom. That place," John shuddered and glanced over his shoulder back into the boy's room, as if he saw something, but there was nothing there. "It has to be the center of this thing...if the girls' room is the heart." John shook his head, "There is no way...I'm going to let...the great Sherlock Holmes...abandon a case. Not even...for me." John whispered, turning pained eyes on his friend. "You may not care what other people think about you Sherlock...but I do. You're not a quitter." John swallowed, but no matter how much he wanted to be away from here, with a warm bed and a cuppa back home in Baker Street---John didn't budge. " _Please..._ " It might have been fueled by his desire to not believe the things that had happened to him, but mostly it was fueled by his need to have Sherlock prove that it was all an elaborate ploy, that someone had orchestrated this. He _needed_ Sherlock to unravel it for him, to show him that it was all a hoax he could write off and never think of again, never _fear_ again.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock could practically feel something shatter within him when he saw the tears streaming down John’s face. It didn’t matter if John said he could run a mile at the moment, the tears were saying something entirely different. Once John put his weight on Sherlock, his head went down like a battleship getting sunk. It took a few tries before Sherlock was able to support his friend’s weight and his own without slouching down. “We are leaving John! After what happened to you, you still want to stay in this god awful place? Something worse is going to happen! If you get killed or if I get hurt, what are we going to do? We don’t have cell service and we are not in England. We cannot just call Lestrade and ask him to send in a team. Not as if a team of moronic police men would solve anything in this place anyway.” Sherlock ranted on, getting a little irritated when John said he wanted them to stay. Whatever had happened to him had to have knocked something lose in that head of his. If the detective was watching himself act like John was in this moment, he would have cracked up laughing because Sherlock was acting like John should be in this moment and John was acting like himself when he knew he was asking for something dangerous and John was putting his foot down. Who was the mother now?  
  
Sherlock stumbled when John swung his weight around towards him, grabbing onto whatever he could to prevent himself from falling to the floor with John. He gripped the edge of the wardrobe, his eyes falling back to John with slight irritation lurking in his them. “So someone needs to fix it? I will fix it. I will come back in the castle _after_ dropping _you_ in the car…John, are you really telling me you think someone…a physically normal human being is behind all of this? After everything you just _saw_ you are daring to tell me that someone was behind all this?” His voice was tense as he spoke these words. Sherlock found himself hating his own being for the words that escaped his lips next. “This was not done by a living person and you know this if not more than me. There is no _evidence_ that anyone has been in here besides us! There are no disturbances in the dust anywhere! John, there are no signs of fires being made besides for the one we made. There are no secret pathways! If there was someone in here, they would be running around in plain view! John, a normal person cannot simply vanish into thin air. A normal person cannot take control of someone’s body and—.” Sherlock had enough sense to stop his own fit of rage before it went too far. Telling John about how he’d just been possessed by some…some _demon_ child of some sort just now would not bode well for getting John on his feet and walking.  
  
He ignored John’s comment about the book. If John wanted this case to be solved so badly then he would have to wait in the car. Sherlock tried to take a step out of the room but John had lodged himself in the door frame and he couldn’t budge him without hurting him. ”John? Do I really have to act like you and tell you to stop being childish? Just get in the bloody car goddammit.” It was the first time that their roles had been reversed and Sherlock found it wildly disorienting. Sherlock shut up while John was explaining a sigh escaping his lips as he watched John making his plea. Those stupid blue eyes of his doctor…Sherlock let out a groan, turning back to John and then glancing out down the hallway at the girls’ room. Carefully, he tugged John forward, leading him to a bench in the middle of the hallway by the staircase. ”We stay here under two conditions John. You stay right fucking here while I move the bags. If something happens, you scream like a pansy and shoot the hell out of whatever it is.” He let out a sigh of relief as he got John onto the bench, his arms aching from the strain already. Sherlock walked down to the girls’ bedroom, grabbing up the other bench as he went. He shut the door and lodged the short bench underneath the handle to secure it closed.  
  
“The other condition is that I never have to be the fucking mature one ever again.” With that Sherlock reached around his neck and took off his blue scarf. He wrapped it tightly around the doctor’s neck, tying it like he would tie it around his own neck before he turned and stalked back down the hallway towards the staircase without looking back, his cheeks flushed. Most likely from the effort of carting John around, at least that’s what he told himself it was from.

 

~ * ~

 

John shook his head, more in denial then in any effort to clear any stray thoughts away. He knew he was in denial, but he didn't care that he knew and therefore should get himself _out_ of denial. He had to have misheard Sherlock or something, because it seemed to him like the detective was actually admitting to the paranormal activity and that was _not_ what John wanted to hear at the moment. He squeezed his eyes shut, pursing his lips, breathing hard as his mind and body rebelled against each other. "No... no fingerprints...?" His brows furrowed even deeper, if that were even possible, and he would have collapsed to the floor if it wasn't for Sherlock's grip keeping him aloft. He squinted down the hallway, "Are...are you _mothering_ me Sherlock?" He managed an almost humorless laugh as Sherlock drug him away to a bench, sitting him down on it rather heavily. John listed to the right a little but he quickly set his hand down beside him to anchor himself, his head leaning against his own shoulder, chest heaving with shocked, frighten breaths. He hadn't been this freaked out since...well, since three years ago. He might even call it mild hysterics. But that was ridiculous, he was a doctor, he needed to get himself under control. He knew this...but it didn't help him get there any faster.  
  
He had been under the control of...something. Some _one_ , actually. But Sherlock saying it aloud made it all the more real and a small, almost whine escaped John's lips as he slumped back against the wall, blue eyes staring vacantly off to the side. God, he had been under control...by a spirit...a ghost. John felt like vomiting, but the only thing in his stomach was tea and he fought the urge. He looked up when Sherlock gripped his shoulder and spoke to him, wondering if he'd lost all sanity by now and Sherlock was going to have him committed after this. But Sherlock had seen it too...he'd _seen_ everything too.  
  
"P-Pansy..." John made a breathy laugh, still panting softly, his head rolling back against the wall, wincing as it disturbed his head wound. "Right..." John reached back and pulled his pistol from the small of his back, setting it against his thigh, flipping the safety over with his thumb. The cool steel of the gun seemed to jump start him a little and he blinked and grit his teeth, taking long and deep calming breaths while he checked the magazine of the gun. He had a good ten or so rounds, which was reassuring. He didn't allow himself to think for even a moment that bullets would probably just anger something like a ghost, not harm it.  
  
"Heh...alright." John nodded meekly, looking up as Sherlock hooked his scarf around his neck and looped it in place. This time, he actually had the frame of mind to flush a little, reaching up absently to touch the soft cashmere fabric. "Five minutes Sherlock...then I'm coming down, whether you're here to help or not." He rasped, his voice gravely from all the shouting he'd been doing before. He watched as his friend disappeared downstairs, feeling the loneliness descend on him again, tucking his chin down into the soft scarf around his neck and pursing his lips tightly, gripping the gun against his leg. He didn't look at the girls' bedroom Sherlock had jimmy rigged to remain shut, but when he glanced up at the room they had come from, he saw the little boy standing there. His back straightened immediately and John tried to press back, but there was a wall there, no escape unless he could rise. John brought the pistol up to bear and swallowed the sick feeling in his stomach. But the boy simply stared back, and then lifted a small, pale finger in the direction of the playroom. John shuddered, a draft wafting down the hallway from that direction. Slowly, he turned his head that way, but kept his eyes on the boy, until he vanished. John made a short, weak attempt at laughter in the back of his throat but the sound was choked and sounded like a croak instead. John bit his lip and gripped the pistol with both hands, horrified to find his hands shaking. He never shook...he was the _rock_ , the army man, never hesitates to take a shot when it's needed. But he was hesitating now, for what had the boy meant to tell him? Was something coming from that way, or was he meaning John should hide there?  
  
John tensed, scooting down the length of the bench, trying to look in both directions for any sign of movement or danger. He heard a scrabbling sound from the direction of the staircase and John grasped the lip of a window sill to drag himself up onto his unsteady feet. Something was coming; he could feel it in the rise of his hairs all over his body, his teeth almost chattering until he clenched them, bringing the pistol up to point at the staircase. "Sherlock?" He called, wondering if it was his friend, returned after only a couple of minutes. But no one came up the stairs...or at least, not in any manner he had seen before. John gasped and fell back from the wall, scrambling away as a hand caught the corner of the stairwell...at the _top_ of the stair, where the wall met the ceiling. John groaned and started up his denial again, "No, no, no, no...no... _Sherlock!!_ " He bellowed as a head covered in messy white hair, tilted around the corner, a long body appearing after it. It was Mrs. Brennan, walking like a giant spider across the ceiling, her movements all jerky and dislocated. John didn't look where he was backing up to and his heel caught the edge of the bench Sherlock had used to prop the knob of the girls' bedroom. It fell to the floor with him and John scrambled back on his elbows, raising the gun up towards the approaching abomination. But John hesitated...for the first time in his entire life, his finger wouldn't slide to the trigger and he gritted his teeth. " _C'mon_ John fucking Hamish Watson, you're a man!" He squeezed the trigger but flinched as the old possessed woman turned her head at a painful angle and screeched at him in a piercing, inhuman voice. The bullet buried itself into the ceiling beside her shoulder. "Fuck!"

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock left John on the bench, heading down the stairs quickly. The more time he spent away from John, the more he would get worried about his friend. He was hurt and bleeding, most likely suffering from trauma of sorts. As Sherlock moved down the stairs, he kept picking up his pace, the end of his long wool coat flying out behind him. It felt odd to not have the weight of his scarf around his neck. It was one of the few things he kept after he had faked his death. Now it was with John, not that he minded too much, it was covered in the army doctor’s tears at the moment anyway. Sherlock stopped on second floor and entered their guest bedchamber. It took him a good minute or so to grab both of their bags, packing away lose things before quickly taking the last set of stairs down to the first floor foyer. Sherlock could not wait to back in the flat in Baker Street. A relieved smile crossed his face as he thought of his place back in London. Well, it wasn’t _his_ place it was _their_ place. Sherlock took long strides over to the huge, heavy door and with his long legs this was no problem.

  
Sherlock pushed his weight against the large wooden doors, forcing them open. It was cold outside but not as cold as it was inside the damn castle. There was a good twenty degree change as he took the steps down to the gravel driveway and wondered out under the dark open sky. This was oddly the most refreshing thing he had experienced since he had arrived in Ireland. Well, to correct this, it was nothing compared to the full night’s sleep he gotten on their first night at the inn. A strange smile crossed his thin lips again but quickly vanished as he spotted a car that was not their own parked ahead of him. _Stupid!_ On the other side of the dirt path, opposite of the blue car John chose as their rental was a small black car. Sherlock eyed it closely, not taking his eyes off of it while heading towards their rented car. He opened the truck and threw their bags inside. All the while, his icy eyes remained on the other vehicle. What was Mrs. Brennan doing here so late? Unless…

  
The detective took a step forward. There was no one inside as far as he could see. However as Sherlock got closer he could spot a large black bulge peeking over the driver’s side window. Brows furrowed, Sherlock rounded the car to get a better look. The windows of the dark car were completely fogged up and he laced his fingers under the handle of the door and tugged it open. The driver fell out head first, a heavy dead body. The man’s face was completely torn apart. There was nothing left of the nose or the lips. The eyes were taken out, blood oozing from every orifice. The throat of the man had been sliced open in a deep cut that nearly severed his head from his shoulders and Sherlock could almost see the man’s spine sticking glistening through the mess of what had been his neck. Sherlock stared at the body, trying to piece as many things together as possible…There was a killer…A physical person here. Not John or him but someone else.  
  
The old woman? The thought came to mind but vanished as he heard a creak coming from the castle door…It had been wider than he’d left it.

Sherlock turned on his heels, his coat flaring out behind him in the wind. He pulled up his coat collar and raced back inside. There was no one there…No matter what his eyes were telling him, he knew better than to trust only one sense. So Sherlock listened closely, catching the sound of a pitter pattering on the ceiling. Sherlock’s eyes shot upward, catching the figure of the elderly woman moving up the ceiling like a spider. Of course among all his clients, the one he does not think is a complete idiot turns into a spider creature. Sherlock raced to the stairs, catching site of the thing scattering up to the higher floors.  
  
It was after John. He cursed, racing up the stairs. Even with his magnificently long legs, he was not faster than the old spider woman. He could hear John yelling not far above him. ”John!” He yelled back as he continued to race up the stairs. Just as he reached the third floor, the gun went off. Sherlock hissed at the sound, watching as the woman scurried across the ceiling. Without any hesitation, Sherlock ran down the hall and grabbed John’s hand and began running toward the stairs. “John! Come on!” He yelled. But as soon as they got to the stairs, the creature had bypassed them overhead and dropped down onto the landing below the stairs. She was blocking their only path way out so Sherlock grabbed the gun from John’s hand’s and pushed John back up towards the small door leading up the private set of stairs to the master bedroom. The detective backed up the stairs after the doctor, pointing the gun at the woman and firing at her as she let out a deafening scream. Sherlock flinched and shot her again, the bullet hitting what had been Mrs. Brennan in the arm. While the creature was slightly distracted, Sherlock began running up the stairs after John. His heart was thundering in his chest but not with the thrill of a chase, but with fear, the deep seeded fear that was spreading through his entire body. As soon as they tumbled into the bedchambers, Sherlock grabbed a wooden chair and lodged it under the door handle, breathing heavily as he paced about, trying to think of what they could do next.

 

~ * ~

 

Relief flooded John's face as Sherlock came thundering up the stairs, wincing as his back protested when he was yanked to his feet by the detective and pulled along the hall. But their only escape route was blocked by the abomination and John started when Sherlock grabbed the gun right out of his hand and aimed it down through the darkness at the old woman possessed by some sort of evil. John was forced back up the last set of stairs leading to the top floor, stumbling until he turned to walk up them properly, his head turned to watch over his shoulder as Sherlock shot off two bullets at the creature, watching one hit her shoulder and spin her around.  
  
The pair darted up the stairs, John doing his best to move as fast as he could, adrenaline blocking out the pains in his body for now. When they got inside the master bedroom, John turned in time to see Sherlock wedge a chair under the doorknob. John collapsed onto the edge of the decimated bed, catching his breath, shaking and shivering from the cold and the sights they had just seen. A woman, crawling on the ceiling...impossible. At least it had been impossible in John's reality up until now. Dropping his face into his hands he groaned, "Now what...we're trapped in here." John got up and paced around the room as well, limping a little as his back protested. He saw the noose hanging from the ceiling and froze, staring up at it. It wasn't the old one they’d seen before...the rope was new. "Sherlock..." A shuddering breath sighed through his nose as his nostrils flared and his jaw worked in anger and frustration, "This is getting to be too much. I'd rather bloody _jump_ out this goddamn window then go back out there to that thing!" He gestured at the broken window, his breath fogging in the air as he spoke. There were no lights in this room and it was so dark, making John glance in every empty corner, expecting something to be lying in wait for them here. He wouldn't put it past whatever the hell was hunting them...  
  
"Bullets don't seem to stop her..." John huffed, holding his hand out for his gun again, feeling safer having it in his hands, checking the magazine when it was handed to him. Seven more rounds left... "We need to get past her somehow, or trap her. Eventually, that thing has to leave her body some time, right?" John couldn't believe he was talking about this, it was too surreal. He was _not_ just talking about demons possessing old ladies like it happened every day, right?  
  
"We need to get the ... _fuck_ ," a short breath escaped past his lips in a breathy laugh that had no humor behind it, "out of here, Sherlock." Reaching out to his friend, he gripped his coat sleeve and pulled him close to his side, "Together...not just one of us." He murmured, looking up into those icy blue eyes with a serious, grave expression, his brows furrowed deeply. He knew they were both thinking the same thing in this moment... _Why the hell did we take this case?_ "Never again..." John shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as he gathered his wits; his soldier wits. "Never again are we taking up another paranormal case. Leave that for the bloody ghost busters." He grumbled, his fingers tightening in Sherlock's sleeve. "We need a plan." He looked around in the darkness of the room. They didn't have much...

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock let out a heavy breath as they reached the master bedroom. His scrawny body was internally yelling profanities at him for this abuse. However, this was not a time to rest. That thing…whatever the hell that fucking thing was outside this room was coming for them. Sherlock let out a heavy breath but did not stop moving. He only glanced at the noose hanging from the ceiling and noted the newness of the rope but didn’t place it in that moment.  There was no longer any time to be scared of these sorts of childish pranks. That thing was going to kill them. Sherlock passed back and forth within the room, opening the drawers and containers for something! Anything! His mind was rushing on pure adrenaline. Despite that, it was aching and struggling as well, his body and mind screaming for the oblivion of cocaine, or better yet morphine. But now was most definitely not the time. None of this was logical. His mind couldn’t even grasp the concept of this entire case and yet here he was, trying to figure a way out of this disaster. “Not a lot of options, John. This room only bought us a few minutes before that _lovely_ woman breaks down the door and eats us…Well, it is most likely a cannibal.”  
  
Sherlock let out short, shallow breaths as he paced the cold floor not far from John. “You’re not the only one John. But right now, we have to be realistic in these most unrealistic conditions. Mrs. Brennan killed her driver, ripped off his face and came in here…She is no longer Mrs. Brennan but something else. Similar to what happened to you in the little boy’s room. Mrs. Brennan is no longer in that body, I believe. She could not handle the stress and pressure of the situation and passed away a long time ago and that thing is just using her corpse. Meanwhile, whatever is now _Mrs. Brennan_ is targeting us.”Sherlock had gone a bit mad trying to piece the information together. None of this was reasonable or logical. Without those two things…  
  
Sherlock let out a loud groan and banged his head against the stone wall a few times. However, John reached out and grabbed his coat and forestalled him. The detective’s eyes gazed down and stared at the scarf wrapped around his friend’s neck. Whatever it was, no matter what it was, they needed to get out of here. No more questions and no trying to figure this one out, he could save it for another day. “Bullets don’t work, but it distracts the creature. It isn’t hampered by injury but it feels the pain from the shot. That angers it and that is how we were able to get up here…” A scrapping sound could be heard at the door to the master bedroom but Sherlock forced himself not to react. However, he reached up and grabbed John’s jacket firmly, “Listen to me and do not forget these words. As soon as that thing gets in here, you shoot every last bullet you have into her. I don’t care if she looks like a woman, just shoot her. But, leave one bullet in the barrel…As soon as the gun only has one bullet; we get the hell out of here. Do not turn back, give me the gun and you run as fast as you can. I will be right behind you…Don’t worry about me staying behind, no way in bloody hell am I staying here in this little piece of hell.” Sherlock bit this off harshly, no soft tones left anywhere in his own voice as he conveyed his directions.  
  
While he spoke, the creature was scratching outside on the door. Sherlock took a step back behind John and grew silent. He watched John for a moment, making sure his friend was readying himself before everything got very quiet and out in the hallway, the sounds ceased. Then Mrs. Brennan threw her body at the door, shattering it to pieces in her violent rage. The creature that had was now the elderly woman let out this keening hiss and began contorting its body to get to them. Its bones snapped and broke as it twisted towards them in its unnatural, spidery way. Sherlock waited until John let lose his rain of bullets, the woman’s body jerking and her vile mouth open in a scream, not so much out of pain but out of anger. Sherlock caught the gun and ran out of the room after John as they both shot past the grasping monster. He ran down the staircase, glancing back over his shoulder at every turn to watch for the creature, while he still kept his eyes on John, making sure his friend stayed within his reach on the way down all those flights of stairs. Once they reached the bottom floor, Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and pulled him faster through the castle. Sherlock didn’t let go until they were outside and rushing to the car, throwing himself into the driver’s seat. He turned on the engine and barely waited for John to get into the passenger side before he threw the car into drive and peeled out down the gravel path towards the gates.

 

~ * ~

 

John pursed his lips as Sherlock spoke, explaining everything he was drawing up in his mind and talking fast. He thought he caught most of it...but he didn't want to think on it now, not with that thing approaching up the stairs. When Sherlock grabbed the front of his coat, John staggered a few steps forward into his friend, blue eyes intent and trained with all seriousness on Sherlock's grey eyes. He nodded curtly. Now that there was a plan, he found it easier to focus on that rather than dwell on the horrible situation they were in. If he had something to do, there wouldn't be anything that would stand in his way of doing it. John was a soldier and a doctor, through and through, and where there was a will; there was a way with him.  
  
Taking up his gun, John checked the magazine again, counting the rounds. Seven...so he could fire six shots. God, if that didn't kill a person, even an undead, demonic person...he didn't know what would. As Sherlock outlined the last part of their plan, John reached into his pocket with a wince, his back killing him now, choosing a bad moment to do so. He extracted the rental car keys and placed them in Sherlock's hand, "You'll need those." He murmured, though he didn't want to think about the moment's ahead where he would have to face whatever driving skills Sherlock possessed. _For now...one step at a time_. "Alright, let’s do this." He sighed.  
  
John glanced nervously at the door as the creature scratched at it like some demented cat. He turned, feeling the reassuring presence of his friend at his back, squaring his shoulders. Even if he was injured, he could still help to protect his friend...  
  
Bringing the gun up, John braced it with his other hand as he had learned was most effective for sure aim, both hands gripping the butt of the weapon, right finger over the trigger. He licked his lips, eyes narrowing into menacing slits of determination. His body was a mess of aches and pains, but he pushed those responses aside as the possessed woman crashed in through the brittle, old door. John's arms remained straight but a jolt of recoil shot through his arms and shoulders with every round he let off. He counted as he pointed the muzzle of the gun at the demon's head. _One, two_. The demon screeched louder, making John's ears ring. _Three, four, five_. The creature stumbled back, hitting the doorjamb and flailing for a handhold to keep itself steady as it was hit with blow after blow. _Six._ The evil thing toppled over, face marred by the gunshot wounds which smoked from the burns produced from the gunpowder at this point blank range. Her face was mangled and unrecognizable now and John forced himself not to look as he traded the gun through his hands and into Sherlock’s, butt first in a safe and timely manner before they ran past the thing as it tried to regroup fast enough to get up again and give chase.  
  
They made it to the top of the stairs and John reached back, both men looking over their shoulders for pursuit. John grasped Sherlock's hand to drag him down the stairs after himself, letting go as they reached the third floor landing, his body screaming at him to rest and his lungs aching as he tried to drag in long, freezing droughts of late night air. The house was a wreck now, things tossed about, and pictures falling from the walls. The very ground of the castle seemed to shake and shiver and John nearly lost his balance as he got a little disoriented from the wavering walls. He saw the little boy in the living room on the first floor and froze eyes wide. But Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and physically dragged him from the castle. Every eerie, ethereal thing seemed to be coming forth now, flying by the windows like dark shadows and they slammed the door shut behind them and stumbled down the stone stairs.  
  
John dived into the passenger side as Sherlock left him there and ran around to the driver's seat, collapsing into the leather seat, out of breath, heart pounding in his ears. "Bloody hell..." John rasped; having the frame of mind to pull his seatbelt on over his lap as Sherlock gunned the engine. They flew down the driveway and John squeezed his eyes shut, bracing his hands on the dashboard. "If the fucking satanic thing in there doesn't kill us, you will with your driving, _Sherlock_!" He crowed, his teeth rattling in his skull as they hit a pretty bad pothole, the whole right side of the car dipping down into the rut and jutting back up again. He would be surprised if there wasn't some damage to the vehicle when they returned it.  
  
Turning, John ventured a look back through the rear windows at the castle falling away into the distance. He couldn't see any details from here...but he felt a shudder run through his body again and he slouched further down into his seat, closing his eyes and dropping his face into his hands, rubbing at his eyes. He felt like he could sleep for a year...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know what you think! I got sort of freaked out editing this late tonight so I hope it gave everyone just as many creepy chills as it did me. We want to give a shout out to sighing_selkie for giving us our first feedback comment, it's greatly appreciated! =] Thanks guys!


	7. One Step Back, Two Steps Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain, Drugs, and Truths

They took care of some things in town, returning the rental car and notifying the police of a violent murder, looking like it was done by some animal, of the driver outside the Dunquin castle. But they didn't give any more details and John was grateful. He didn't feel like staying another night in Dublin for questioning. As it was, the four hour drive took about that and it was well past three in the morning when they passed into Dublin. But John didn't want to stop so they chartered a private boat, paying handsomely for such a late travel, using the excuse of a dire family emergency...life or death, really.   
  
Another ninety minute journey across the Irish Sea, another train caught at five a.m. that dropped them at the West end another four hours later. It was eight-thirty in the morning when John opened his eyes, slumped in his train seat, his forehead plastered against the plexi-glass window. He grimaced as he straightened up, squinting in the early London light, weak from the winter cloud cover. They were back in London, and boy did things seem nice. Everything was normal, everything made sense...people were people here, solid and touchable. John turned to look at Sherlock where he sat up in his train seat, offering him a relieved smile, "It's good...to be back." He knew he would not be blogging this story, not unless he wanted the entirety of England believing they were a bunch of hacks...   
  
After collecting their luggage, John stood in front of the station beside his friend, both men looking for a free cab. There was the awkward moment now when he, of course, remembered his promise to move back into the flat with Sherlock. Was that expected to be immediate? He had to pack up his things after all...but he still felt so tired and even that dingy couch they had in their old sitting room would be nice. He hoped Lestrade and the cleaning team had managed to make the place presentable again. John dipped his fingers into his mouth and elicited a sharp whistle, wincing as the sound made his own head throb hideously, but it was the only way to get a cab at the station and one pulled alongside the curb. John opened the door for Sherlock and climbed in after him. "221B Baker street, please." He told the cabbie, leaning back in his seat and looking over at his friend with small smile. "I'll have to pack my things later this week..." He said on a sigh, leaning his heavy, aching head against the headrest of the cab seat.

 

~ * ~

 

The whole ride back, Sherlock hardly spoke a word. After that incident at the castle in Ireland, who could blame him? The whole case had gone against every shred of logic he had ever known. The options he had were to either forget the experience had ever happened or change the way he thought about the world entirely. The latter was impossible to accept. To conclude that everything he knew was false was to destroy Big Ben itself because there was a crack in a stone at the top of its peak. Why not simply repair that one stone? It wasn’t as if it was a piece of the foundation. However, as a scientist and detective he could simply not erase every memory he had experienced that night. Instead, he stored it, in a place in his mind where he kept the most unused information where he would hopefully just delete it someday to make room for more important facts.   
  
Yet Sherlock could not settle the unease in his mind. His icy eyes stayed wide open for the whole journey back to London and he didn’t once take his eyes off of his surroundings, almost expecting a spidery old woman to attack them. They had escaped the certain death that had been tailing them in Ireland and it was a relief to get out of there but even through the whole train ride back home; Sherlock kept finding himself glancing over at John with concern. As if his friend might suddenly collapse from his pain and exhaustion. He needed to get some real medicine for that head wound.   
The refreshing air of London hit the detective like bright sunshine hitting a drunken man. Sherlock hissed as they got off the train, swinging his bag back over his shoulder. Dark circles had become more readily apparent underneath his eyes and his body was tired and sluggish while his mind was screaming for something logical and exciting to take the place of their last illogical and frightening case. His whole existence was a contradiction at the moment and yet when did that ever stop him. At least John didn’t have to think of a boring name for this case for there was little doubt in Sherlock’s mind in that John Watson would not be writing up this one for that boring blog.   
  
He let out a sigh and got into the cab as John held the door open for him. Without the doctor, he knew he very well may have been hanging by that noose hung up in the master bedroom of that illogical castle in Ireland by now. In the car, Sherlock glanced over at John again, “No excuses this time? A scary night spent in Ireland is suddenly enough to make you willing to move back into Baker Street?” It was the first time he had spoken since they left the castle and he was as sarcastic and composed as ever. “Next time I will just bring you to a down town stripper’s club to get you to do something I want then.” He grinned childishly, the cab driver glancing back at them.

“A young couple coming back from a honeymoon? Oh, I miss being that young.” The cabbie laughed foolishly.

For some reason…this irritated the detective to the extreme for once. This driver’s stupidity pushed the tired and stressed detective over the edge and Sherlock’s eyes made contact with the driver’s in the rearview mirror, his icy blue eyes just staring at him. ”Dear god, your abilities in observation are nonexistent! Just shut up and drive.”   
  
Throughout the rest of the drive home, the cabbie didn’t dare look back at them again and it was a good thing too; Sherlock was glaring at him in the view of the mirror with his full, concentrated look of distain. He had never snapped at a person for mistaking them for a couple until now and as soon as the cab stopped in front of 221B, Sherlock jumped out of the car and walked up to the door. He took a deep breath and released a tense sigh, taking out his key and pushing it into the lock before entering. As soon as they both cleared the threshold, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat. She looked refreshed; her skin was shining with products from a spa. Her sister had treated her no doubt. “Boys! You look terrible! Do you need to go to a hospital?” She came up to John, staring at the bandage around his head and the dirt on his clothing, immediately beginning to fuss. “It’s so good to have you back! The maids cleaned this place right up. I didn’t even have to do anything this morning, it was all so spic and span.” She smiled at John, ignoring Sherlock’s presence almost entirely, still cross with him for ruining her flat in the first place.   
  
However, the detective refused to be ignored and he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly, “My dear Mrs. Hudson!” He said loudly, the elderly woman struggling to get the detective off of her.   
  
“Mr. Holmes! Put me down! I have not forgotten what you did to my flat!” Mrs. Hudson yelled back, somewhere in her words she let out a soft laugh. She was mad but she was happy for the two men to be back and in one piece. Sherlock smiled and placed her down, the landlady turning to scold him. “Sherlock, you have to learn to _clean_.”   
  
He smiled for a moment longer and then his expression returned to the normal blankness, “Where is my fish?”   
  
“Upstairs, in your flat, dear. I put that poor thing in a tank. I don’t know how it managed to live in that god awful sink!”

  
As soon as she said these words, Sherlock kissed her on the cheek and quickly darted upstairs to their flat. It was spotless, practically as if Sherlock had never conducted any experiments in the room to begin with. On the sitting room table where they often ate was a fish tank and there inside was Watson, the good listening koi fish that didn’t look at him in that annoyed fashion so often. A small smile crossed his chapped lips before he walked over to the couch and threw his body onto it. ”John! Feed Watson!”

 

~ * ~

 

John couldn't remember the last time he had felt this tired. Not even after pulling a double shift at the clinic and waking up early the next morning to do it all over again. The medicine he had taken for his head had done very little in lieu of his headache and he was focusing all his energy into not thinking about the pain of it. Once he got back to the flat, he'd do a proper dressing of his head and kip to his place to get a few things he'd need if he was going to be staying over at Baker Street. He wasn't going to argue...the entire trip in Ireland had been an up and down ride on a roller-coaster. First, the odd feelings associated with waking up cuddling Sherlock in Dublin---then the entire god awful night spend in Dunquin. John shuddered to think what would have happened to his friend if he hadn't been able to go with him to Ireland for some reason. He would probably still be there...freaking out and chasing old lady spider monkeys.   
  
"Heh, yeah...'cause that will make me want to give in, strippers…" He murmured, shaking his head minutely with a tiny half smile. He knew Sherlock was only being a sod because of the silence between them. But when he turned that condescending look on the cabbie, John blinked in surprise. He was so tired he had just been prepared to ignore the stupid comment from the driver, but Sherlock seemed thoroughly incensed. He watched his friend the whole rest of the car ride, who was glaring daggers into the rear-view mirror. The tension mounted as the cabbie wouldn't look back at them or speak again, and John had to pay the man since Sherlock obviously wasn't going to give him a dime after his comments so... John heaved a long sigh and pulled out his wallet, handing the man some bills. "Keep it..." He murmured with a tired smile as he got out behind Sherlock.   
  
John was extremely grateful to see Mrs. Hudson again; it made everything seem even more right. He hugged her back as she trundled over to him and kissed his cheek, smiling. "I'm glad everything is cleaned up then, leaves less for us both to do." She patted his shoulder. "I'll be alright, just need to redress it." He motioned to the bandage around his head, "No hospital, I don't have a concussion."   
  
John set his bag down so he could take off his jacket, hanging it on the hook and getting a flood of nostalgia at the act. How many times, even before Sherlock had pulled the slip, had he come into this place and hung his jacket up here? A lot... but he didn't think he would be doing it again with the permanence of staying.   
  
"You're going to break her back Sherlock." John smiled, picking up his kit and watching Sherlock dive up the stairs. He shook his head, looking at Mrs. Hudson again, "Hell it's good to be back...Ireland was a nightmare." He murmured and she raised her brows at him.   
  
"Oh dear, how bad was that case then?" She folded her arms up across her chest.   
  
"Pretty bad...I won't be writing this one up." He pinched the bridge of his nose and heard Sherlock call down to him from the sitting room. He rolled his eyes, "Already back to ordering me around. And I haven't even fully moved in yet."   
  
"Oh, you're moving in!" She gripped his shoulders and smiled. "It'll be so much easier having you back John, he's just too much to handle for an old woman like me." She heaved a long sigh laced with exhaustion.   
  
John nodded, "Yeah, whoever thought him living alone was a good idea was an ignorant prick." Probably Mycroft...   
  
Mounting the stairs, John walked up them with a small swell of anticipation. It would be the first time he would be seeing the flat at its cleanest since before ‘The Fall’, and John took his time coming up the stairs. He came into the room frowning, "Who?" He set his kit down by his old chair, restored to its former cleanliness. The skull still sat atop the fireplace. John looked over onto the sitting room table and saw the fish. "You...named it Watson?" Turning around, he arched a brow at his friend, "I'm not going to feed your pets Sherlock, you shouldn't even _have_ a pet; you can barely take care of yourself." It was the same lecture, the same place, and the same feeling from before. John was home...this long suffering idiot helped make it feel like home too, so he wasn't too biting in his words. Sighing, he trudged over to the table and picked up a bottle of what looked like fish food, but was big enough to be a dog's kibbles. The koi fish obviously ate a lot. John popped the cap, ignored the fishy smell, and pushed the top of the lid back on the tank. He shook out some kibbles into the water and the fish rallied to the surface, opening its wide mouth and gulping down a few kibbles at a time. "Hungry bugger..." John muttered, setting the tank right again and putting the container of food down.   
  
"I hope you named it Watson so you can yell at it instead of me." John smirked and slowly lowered himself into his old chair, letting out a long sigh; he relaxed into the plush cushions. He leaned his head back against the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a while, but he knew he'd need to get back to his flat, if only to grab some clothes for tomorrow and a more weighty medical kit. His head was killer at the moment. But when he looked down at the little round table by his chair, he noticed a book on top of a small stack. At first, he was going to ask why Sherlock was reading the same book he had been reading earlier that week...but he noticed that it wasn't a new book, but actually _his_ book. John sat up and picked it up, for it was dog-eared in the last place he left off. "Sherlock, what is my book doing here...this was in my flat?" Now that he thought about it, he looked up and saw his laptop on the desk across from Sherlock's. There was a dirty mug he had drank tea from three nights ago that had been sitting on his nightstand, now sitting by his laptop, waiting to be cleaned.   
  
John got to his feet and paused, looking at the kitchen, then at the sitting room door, choosing to go in that direction. His quick strides thumped against the floor as he went into the bathroom. All his left behind toiletries were there...his towels, his soaps, everything. John went upstairs next and paused with his hand on the knob of his old room...slowly turning it. When he pushed the door open, he stared with pursed lips into his bedroom, set up as it had been exactly three years before. " _Sherlock_!" He moved downstairs and into the sitting room again. "Did you tell Mycroft I was moving back?" John was a little creeped out by this...for everything was where it had been. Which means someone packed up all his things, and moved them here. His knickers...his old magazines he had from college, which had been dumped in a box in the closet back at his flat, disinterested for the most part in wanking to a paper girl. Everything was here. And the lease to his old apartment?   
  
Pulling out his mobile, John sent a text to one of those numbers Mycroft always seemed to use:

  
  
_To: Mycroft Holmes_  
From: John Watson   
Message: You WANKER!   
Did you just assume? You're such an arse, you better not have paid my lease! -JW  


 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock kept his face against the Union Jack pillow that was wedged on the couch. He waved his arm out to the side, yelling through the pillow. ”The fish, John! Its name is Watson.” Sherlock didn’t bother to move, knowing the doctor could find it on his own. It was nice to be back and the first thing he knew he had to do was to get his body back into normal shape, which was not going to be that difficult now that John was back in the flat. Sherlock’s eyes shifted around, noticing a slight change in the room; all of the doctor’s possessions were back as if nothing had changed in the three years they had been absent from this place. The detective let out a sigh, reaching back and pulling his cellphone from his back pants pocket. “No, I named him Watson so I had someone to argue with when I used to shoot myself full of drugs.” Sherlock said sarcastically.   
  
He hadn’t checked his mobile since they arrived at the castle in Ireland for there was no point to. There had been no service anywhere in that drafty place. Sherlock rolled onto his back, turning on his phone as John fed his fish. There was only one new message and three missed calls. Unfortunately, it was from his controlling brother Mycroft:

  
  
To: Sherlock   
From: Big Brother   
Message: You’re welcome, Sherly.   
Don’t complain it was either this or rehab.   
-M

  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer John when he asked why his stuff was already here; the detective merely shrugged. John could figure it out on his own after all. He waited until John left the room and went upstairs before getting up off the sofa. There was not a doubt in Sherlock’s mind that the pain medicine was wearing off on his friend. John would want to take some minimal pain killers no doubt and spend the rest of his time suffering through the rest of the discomfort himself like a soldier. But Sherlock was not going to let him martyr himself this time. Sherlock went to one of his desk drawers and pulled out the bottle of aspirin that John had given him for his dislocated jaw what now felt like months ago but was really only a week or so ago. Quickly, he dumped the pills out into the palm of his hand while walking over to the fire place.   
  
A smile appeared on his face reflected back at him in the mirror over the hearth and he stared at his very old ‘friend’ who sat on the shelf above the fireplace. ”Alas, poor Yorick. I knew ye well.” He spoke elegantly, picking up the skull to reveal a prescription medicine bottle. It belonged to Mrs. Hudson and to be exact, it was the pain medicine she used for her hip. John was never very good at hiding things from Sherlock. He placed the skull back down and popped open the painkiller bottle. Fortunately the medicine was around the same shape and color, the only difference was the code engraved into the pill and the stronger pain killer was slightly smaller.   
  
Sherlock poured the painkillers into the aspirin bottle, quickly placing Mrs. Hudson’s bottle now filled with aspirin underneath the skull as footsteps walked up the stairs and into the room. It was not John; it was Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray of tea. She was smiling sweetly, “Sherlock, I won’t forgive you again if you destroy this place one more time. Do you hear me?” She asked, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Sherlock took off his coat and tossed it onto his old leather chair, moving to sit back on the couch. ”Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Now I have to get to work. Thank you for your venomous tea. It always eludes me as to how you of all people have not succeeded in killing me by now. Now! Off, away with you!” He mocked, setting the bottle of switched pills on the coffee table by the tea. Mrs. Hudson huffed, becoming apparently irritated and stormed out of the room just as John came back in. It was quicker to get her out of the room and shut up her fussing if you were churlish with her, not that he exactly suspected she would recognize her painkillers in the switched bottle if she lingered.  
  
Sherlock leaned back in the couch and glanced up at John who had just returned from inspecting his old room, “Dear John, when do I tell that bastard anything?” He asked simply, pouring sugar and milk into his own cup of tea and just milk into John’s. ”Mrs. Hudson was so kind as to make us some tea. Come and sit! I found the aspirin you gave me last week. You should take one and get some rest.” 

 

~ * ~

 

John heaved a long sigh as he got a prompt reply from Mycroft, his lease hadn't been paid, that he was glad for. He was not going to start excepting handouts from the asshole who stalked his own brother. Besides, he really didn't like the older man's implications when he spoke of him and Sherlock; he was just as bad as everybody else in his assumptions.  
  
"Oh, she did?" John looked up from his last text message, having one from his secretary asking him if he'd be in tomorrow. He told her no, he was taking a few days sick leave. Sherlock was pouring tea into two mugs by then and it was strange that he was being almost...considerate; in fact he _was_ being considerate. "What do you want...?" He frowned, suddenly suspicious. He sat down on the sofa though, never able to ignore the promise of a hot cuppa, especially after the time they'd both had. "Are you planning something...?" John muttered around his mug, glancing at the aspirin bottle shrewdly. It was the same bottle so; it wasn't like Sherlock was going to try anything there. He doubted the man would try to slip him anything from his own stashes...that would be too kind of him anyway.   
  
Sherlock was being almost caring and John glanced at him as he poured some of the pills out of the bottle and into his hand. He didn't notice that the pills were switched, the new ones only recommending two pills in one dose. The aspirin, which John believed he was taking, could be taken at one time with three or even four pills with little negative effect. John took three, one too many for this hidden painkiller. He knocked them back and washed them down with some tea, "Christ, that bookcase really did a number on my back." John grumbled, setting the bottle down and sitting back against the sofa to cradle his warm mug in his hands. But he knew he couldn't relax there long, he needed to replace the bandages around his head. "Thank you Sherlock..." He murmured, closing his eyes as he finished his tea. There was milk in it, no sugar...Sherlock had actually remembered. It touched something in John that Sherlock would remember that about him, even though he had never taken the time to remember three years ago. It made an impression on him in that moment. Even after three years, Sherlock had held onto that piece of information, even though he would delete everything else of importance. Like the goddamn solar system...   
  
John was distracted by his own thoughts so when what he thought was aspirin kicked in, he didn't fully register the strength of them. Sitting up, his back didn't protest so much and he found he could lean forward without grunting in discomfort, putting his empty mug down on the coffee table. He got a bit of a head rush when he stood up though, blinking as the room spun a little. "I, uh...need to redress this." He muttered, moving across the hall to the bathroom. Sherlock's bedroom door was ajar and he could see they had cleaned up in there as much as was possible. In the bathroom, John angled the hinged mirror over the sink so he could see the back of his head easier, turning and looking from the corners of his eyes as he unwound the dressing and took off the sticky, messy gauze patch. The bleeding had been staunched and the gash only needed to be cleaned and redressed again, wrapping clean gauze around his head. He would need to find a way to secure it when he slept though, otherwise the whole bandage strip would just slip off in his sleep.   
  
Sleep...how blissful that sounded right now. John paused over the sink from washing his hands, the room shifting again oddly enough. He was vaguely worried, because if aspirin could make him react like this, maybe he did have a concussion. Well...he would have been sick to his stomach by now if he did though. "Sherlock..." John wandered into the doorway of the sitting room, leaning up against the doorjamb as it was becoming an effort to keep himself upright. "I think I'll kip up to my newly...arranged room," there was some sourness to his voice in that, "take a nap. I beg of you, don't do anything stupid or dangerous until I wake up, please?" He rubbed the small of his back and turned, trudging up the stairs, having to use the banister just to get himself up there. His feet felt numb and dragged him around like a lump of potatoes.   
  
He took just enough time to pull his jumper and shirt off, discarding his pants onto the floor with them--for once not stopping to fold everything. Retrieving a cotton beanie from a dresser drawer, right where he normally kept it--John gently pulled it on over his head and crawled into bed. The cool sheets welcomed him and in his drug induced state, he fell asleep almost instantly, not having a moment to consider the shadows in his room or reflect on the horrible things they'd experienced and seen together. He'd taken enough of that drug to knock out any subconscious efforts on his mind's part at conjuring up a nightmare. He slept, entirely still and quiet, for hours...

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock drank his tea slowly while watching John’s movements closely. He almost choked when John took three of the pills. The detective himself took four of those pills on a regular basis and the effect was numbing for him. However, Sherlock was used to strong drugs and John…Well; Sherlock could conclude that the doctor hadn’t used any strong medications since the day he was shot in Afghanistan. He sipped his tea slowly, not moving from the couch while John got up. At least the doctor would get a good night’s sleep. Sherlock leaned back on the couch, resting his head against the edge. A sigh escaped his pale, chapped lips. John would not be waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and thinking about what happened in that castle like he would be. It irritated Sherlock slightly now that he was thinking about it. Everything that happened to John back there was his fault. His friend…his only friend used his own body to protect Sherlock from a blow that could have killed him. Sherlock didn’t follow after John to the bathroom. The sight of that gash alone would make him want to lose his stomach.   
  
  
Lately…his feelings for his friend had been confusing him to the extreme. Sherlock was a _machine_ and machines are not supposed to have these kinds of emotions. Was this one of Mycroft’s evil plots to control him? He stayed silent on the couch until John came back and said he was going to sleep. ”Go to bed. I promise I won’t destroy the flat until tomorrow.” Sherlock rolled his head to the side, watching as John turned and left the room. The detective closed his icy blue eyes and listened silently to John’s footsteps until he heard them stop at the bed upstairs.   
  
  
The guilt Sherlock felt for hurting his friend was as deep seeded as the roots of a willow tree. The least he could do for his friend that had protected him time and time again was to promise him a solid sleep with no interruptions. Sherlock stayed on the couch for half an hour, drinking more tea and gazing out the window. He wanted to play his violin but the sound would be disturbing, not that anything could possibly wake up the doctor for a while with those drugs in his system. Sherlock stood up quickly, his body aching for some form of movement. It was the first time since they had left that his body really began experiencing any pain or irritation, either that from injuries or from his withdrawal symptoms. That was thanks to John. Another sigh escaped his lips. It was still early and Sherlock did not plan to go to sleep for a while. So, he did the one thing that John would approve of. Sherlock went downstairs and sat with Mrs. Hudson and they talked for a while and had a late lunch around two in the afternoon. Mrs. Hudson talked about what she had been doing for the three years that Sherlock had been gone. Nothing Sherlock hadn’t already known; Mycroft’s surveillance extended to Mrs. Hudson as well. Sherlock would not admit it, but it was rather pleasant to hear Mrs. Hudson talk as if nothing had changed.   
  
  
Later in the afternoon, Sherlock kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek and went back up to his flat. He shut the door behind him and peeled off his dark green shirt, tossing it onto the couch. There was an empty silence in the flat and he knew John was right above his head but he still did not like the quiet solitude. The appearance of the flat was if John was never there to begin with, just his stuff had migrated there without him. He began unbuttoning his pants, walking over to John’s laptop, tracing his fingers over its hard surface. He paused for a moment before his eyes widened, realizing what he was doing. Sherlock pushed off his pants and turned away, walking straight towards the bathroom, intending to have a shower that would hopefully wash away all this stupid sentiment. He turned on the hot water and got into the tub, closing the shower curtain behind himself. The hot water washed away all the dirt and blood out of his hair and the detective let his head fall against the cold wall of the shower. _”What is wrong with me?”_ He hissed softly under his breath.   
  
  
Sherlock didn’t leave the shower until all traces of the last couple of days had been completely erased down the drain. Wrapping a towel around his thin waist, he left the shower and then proceeded to shave, brush his teeth, and dry his hair. It was almost like John was standing over his shoulder and reminding him what he had to do before going to bed. Sherlock dropped his hair brush down beside the sink like it was a coiled snake; practically hearing his friend’s voice in his head…Sherlock had to be losing it.   
  
  
After doing everything he had to in the bathroom, he got changed into a pair of cotton grey sleeping pants and a white undershirt. With that he threw himself on top of his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Sleeping was difficult but after a good hour of struggling, he finally passed out because of sheer exhaustion. 

 

  
  
_Sherlock sat in the back of a cab, his heart racing and pounding inside his chest. Something was wrong and he couldn’t figure out what it was. The icy blue eyed male stopped the cabbie in the middle of the street in front of St. Bart’s Hospital and rushed out into the street. His phone rang but Sherlock kept running across the street, his feet pulling him somewhere as he reached down and fished his mobile from his pocket. ”Hello?”_

_  
“Sherlock.” It was John. The voice of his friend made him stop in the middle of the street, feeling a strange tightness within his chest._

_  
”I am here, where are you?”_

_  
“Sherlock, stop!” John’s voice commanded him and he stopped dead in the middle of the road._

_He turned around, looking for John’s face. ”What? John, what is wrong? Where are you?”_

_  
“Sherlock, please, just stay there. Don’t come any closer.” John’s voice sounded different, strained almost…something was wrong._

_Panic rose within the core of Sherlock’s heavy heart. His friend…His only friend as going to-. Something was wrong, “…John?”_

_  
“Look up, I am on the rooftop.”_

_  
That was something the detective did not want to hear. Fear rose as he bravely lifted his head to stare at a figure standing on the ledge of St. Bart’s rooftop. It was John. Something inside Sherlock’s chest tightened and squeezed in terror, panic growing. He took a step forward, “John? John! What are you doing?! Get down!” Sherlock began to run towards the building’s entrance, only to hear someone else come on the line and speak into his ear._

_  
“Oh Sherlock~ I wouldn’t do that if I were you~” Moriarty’s voice sang sickeningly sweet. Sherlock could just make out Moriarty’s figure standing behind the doctor’s behind the ledge._

_  
”Let him go! You want me! Take me! Kill me! Let him go Moriarty!” Sherlock begged._

_  
“Tsk tsk tsk. This isn’t how this works. You lost Sherlock~ You know what is about to happen.” Moriarty scolded in a mocking tone._

_  
Anger rose in Sherlock’s throat as he stared up at John. He composed himself as quickly as he could, suffusing his own voice with calm before he spoke, “…Let him go. I will come up there unarmed, just me. We will settle this, one-on-one.”_

_  
Moriarty laughed, “Oh Sherly dear~ it doesn’t work like that! We both know how you work! They say you are heartless but we both know that is not true. I told you I was going to burn the heart out of you and look! I am going to do just that!” Moriarty laughed and laughed and laughed…_

_  
”I will fucking kill you! Touch him and you will die the most painful and excruciating death I could ever think of!” Sherlock yelled._

_  
“Dear me! Did I upset little Sherly? Well, I will do you a little favor. You get to talk to your precious doctor before he takes the swan dive…I don’t think killing me will help your pain. But if I kill your Johnny then you will be in more pain then you could ever inflict on me~”_

_  
Deep down somewhere inside him, he knew Moriarty was right. There was a moment of silence as the phone was passed back to John before he heard his friend’s voice rasping on the other side of the phone, “S-Sherlock?”_

_  
”John, don’t worry…I can get you out of this. Everything will be okay.” There was panic within Sherlock’s voice because he knew he couldn’t uphold his promise._

_  
“Sherlock...”John laughed painfully, “…Don’t lie to me.”_

_  
Sherlock’s eyes widened, tears rose up in his eyes, taking another step towards St. Bart’s. “John…I will get you down. Please, just-”_

_  
“No…you’re not going to. You bastard, you are going to stay right there like the selfish prick you are.” John’s voice cracked again and Sherlock could tell he was crying. “Sherlock, can you do me a favor?”_

_  
”Yeah…John, I will do whatever you need.” Sherlock agreed, the hand holding his mobile shaking so bad he almost dropped it._

_  
Sherlock could see John reach out his arm, as if he was trying to grab a hold of the detective. Sherlock stretched his own arm up towards John. If there was a god, they would be able to reach one another. Yet there was a distance that could never be bridged._

_“Sherlock, you fucking prick. Don’t die and never stop doing cases…You may never admit it but you are saving lives. Also, if you ever pick up a damn syringe again, I will take you to hell with me…You got that?”_

_  
A tear dropped down Sherlock’s cheek, keeping his hand open and outstretched towards the doctor, “I promise.”_

_  
“Good, goodbye Sherlock…You were the most human and bravest man I have ever met.” John’s voice was hard now with resolve._

_  
Sherlock took another step forward, shaking his head in desperate denial, “No…No…John, no. I am coming up there.”_

__  
He could hear John laugh in a breathless voice full of fear, “Take my hand, Sherlock.”  
  
Tears ran down Sherlock’s face as John took the last step he would ever take in this life and he heard his own voice scream, “John!!!” He ran forward but he wasn’t fast enough and John landed on the sidewalk with a loud crack as his skull met the pavement. Sherlock pushed his way through a group of gathering people and fell to the ground beside his friend’s motionless body. There was blood draining out of his skull and his soft blue eyes were open in blank, lifeless shock, frozen in an expression of surprise. Tears were streaming down Sherlock’s face, blinding him and he reached out, grabbing up one of John’s still warm hands, lacing their fingers together. John’s lips twitched into a slight smile that quickly faded from his features as his blood streaked across his face, turning it black and charred like burnt flesh.

  
  
  
Sherlock jerked upright in his bed, breathing heavily with his chest rising and falling at an abnormal and panicked pace. The detective’s thin body was covered in a layer of sweat and tears were leaking out of his now blood shot pale eyes. Sherlock reached up, his hands shaking as he ran his fingers through his damp hair. ”John…” His head shot up again as he got up from the bed and wobbled forward, almost without any sense of balance. It was just a dream, he told himself. It was only a dream. However, he could not calm himself down, his heart still racing in his chest and the knotted pain in his stomach moving up into his throat so it was nearly impossible to swallow. Sherlock was panicked, his eyes dilated and he wanted this to stop; the tears, the shaking, the pain in his chest. _Everything.  
_  
  
Sherlock stumbled towards his black vales and he rummaged through it and pulled out the bottle of morphine and the syringe he’d stashed there two days ago. With his trembling hands, he extracted about twelve milliliters of the morphine into the syringe. His breath was unstable and he forced himself to sit down as his trembling hands guided the needle to his left arm and into a vein. He injected all of the solution with one push of the plunger, not caring what happened in the moments to follow, just needing this horrible pain and panic to cease. Sherlock sat there in the room for what seemed like hours, waiting until the morphine kicked in. However, even as he felt his body going numb, the ache in his chest persisted. The tears were still running down his chilled, damp face. The only difference was that now everything was blurry.   
  
  
Sherlock struggled, pushing himself up onto his feet and dropping the bottle and the needle onto the floor at his feet. The room spun around him as he took a few steps towards his bedroom door. ”John?” He called out into the empty hallway. He wanted to see John, _needed_ to see John. Sherlock stumbled forward, walking like a drunken man as he shoved his weight against the door and walked out of the bedroom, the knob slamming into the wall behind him. The pain…The pain in his chest wouldn’t stop. What was it? Now he was just drugged _and_ panicked and he grabbed at the front of his damp shirt, fingers tightly grasped over his heart. Leaning against the railing at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock forced himself to take each and every step up until he reached the door to John’s bedroom. His sweaty fingers laced themselves around the doorknob and turned it, sending him stumbling into the room. Everything was spinning uncontrollably and he stopped in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as his legs nearly sagged beneath him. He stared at John’s figure in the bed, curled on his side facing the door. He was alive and in Sherlock’s drugged haze, he shuffled towards the bed and crawled in next to John. The tears had slowed down now as relief flooded his system and the ache in his chest began to ease.   
  
  
”John…John…John, don’t die, okay?” His words were slurred and stammered, his tongue feeling thick like cotton.

 

~ * ~

 

John was completely unaware most of the day, sleeping like the dead in his own bed. He never moved from his spot on his side, facing the door to his bedroom. He never even got up to eat or use the bathroom, his body completely dormant. The aspirin he thought he had taken was much stronger than any aspirin he had ever taken before, but he couldn't even notice that, too deeply asleep and never once resurfacing. That was, until the drugs started to wear off. He wasn't completely aware yet, and he couldn't even muster the strength to lift his heavy eyelids. They felt like bricks and he drew in a long breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. He judged it must have been evening, for the traffic outside in Baker Street was light. But it was confusing, for if that were so, he had slept the entire day away. John dozed in and out for a little while longer, telling himself he must have needed this and realizing he was rather hungry, when he heard a noise, a sound like someone's door opening. It brought him up out of most of his stupor, yawning and forcing his eyes open. But the room was dark, the only lights from the street outside filtering in through his thin curtains and the clock on his nightstand telling the time. God, it was awfully late.   
  
_"John..."_

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, looking towards the direction of his name. "Sherlock? Why didn't you wake me, I've been out all day..." He grumbled his voice raspy from disuse. Before he knew it, there was a heavy, hot body crawling into his bed with him and John was instantly awake. "What the hell...?" John forced his elbow under himself, propping himself up and looking on in some disturbance when Sherlock slurred his words and tipped his face towards him. John could see half of Sherlock's expression from the light outside and he stilled, his protests dying on his lips. There were tears in Sherlock's eyes and on his cheeks...in all the time he had known Sherlock, he had never seen the man cry, or even get such an emotion on his face before. At least not real tears, he’d seen crocodile ones before that had gotten them into a crime scene or flat a few times before. From the way his words were slurred, he almost thought Sherlock was drunk, maybe he was a sad drunk...   
  
"Sherlock...I'm not dead, I'm not going to die. What've you been up too?" He heaved a long sigh, "I told you to stay out of trouble, can't you do that for one afternoon...?" But he couldn't put any annoyance in his tone, it was impossible to manage when those icy eyes watery with tears, eyes weary and red. John bit his lip, "What're you even talking about..." He had missed something, obviously, but he couldn't tell what, his mind still fogged with sleep. He leaned in and caught a whiff of Sherlock's breath to see if he'd been drinking, but there wasn't a trace of alcohol on his breath. So he did the next logical thing and reached for Sherlock's right arm, pulling it out from under the sheets and sitting up, switching on the bedside lamp so he could get a look. "You're hallucinating, obviously, I'm very much alive but-" He paused, seeing the little red track mark, a smear of blood from a pin prick on his friend's arm. John's brows furrowed and he dropped Sherlock's arm like it was dead to him, his hazy sleepiness replaced with a flash of anger and hurt. John turned on the man rolling about in his bed, "We had...an _agreement_ Sherlock." He bit out between clenched teeth.   
  
He almost got out of bed, to go downstairs and hunt up that bottle of morphine Sherlock had obviously nicked from somewhere. "You are such a _dick!_ " John bellowed, breathing hard like he'd been punched in the chest, struggling with the blankets that were wrapped around him, preventing him from getting out to search for Sherlock's latest drug stash. "You're an insufferable pig who cares about no one but yourself, I even bloody pleaded with you over this and yet you _still_ go behind my back. I don't know how anyone could _possibly_ misunderstand our relationship as a romantic one when all you would ever do is _hurt_ me!" John croaked on the last words he spoke.   
  
There was a pause of heavy breathing as John slowly spiraled out of control. He reached for Sherlock since he couldn't disentangle himself from the bed and his friend's draping form, grasping the front of his friend's shirt and yanking him up from the bed with the strength of a soldier, holding his limp form up by the front of his clothes so they were face to face, since John was sitting up now. "No one will ever pour out their heart to you Sherlock, because you'd only stomp on it. Even if I _did_ fucking love you, you insufferable _bastard_ , I'd rather swallow it and bury it if you're going to treat yourself this way!" John's expression sunk from one of rage, to regret and he hung his head, letting go of Sherlock's rag-doll body and pushing him away, fighting to get out and away from him, crawling towards the other side of the bed, managing to tear his legs free of the blankets to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to Sherlock. The same, broken, soft voice he had spoken to his therapist in that last day he had ever seen her...the day he told her what was eating away at him so bad---slipped out of him now as he braced his elbows against his knees and dropped his face into his upturned hands. "You're killing yourself Sherlock...same as you're killing me." The slope of his shoulders were slumped, broken and exhausted, listing to one side slightly. He braced a hand against his night table there, knowing he'd snapped, knowing he'd said things he couldn't take back without their repercussions...but it was done now. Every confused, convoluted feeling in his gut churning into a poisonous brew that made him spew such rubbish. His head and back ached again and he reached up and tore the beanie off his head, feeling overwhelmingly hot in the stifling room. His hair was mussed from the hat, the bandages about his head askew slightly, but still covering the gauze patch over his wound.   
  
"I was...so alone..." He murmured in that choked voice, "And you..." He sunk a little deeper into the edge of the bed, feeling small and stupid. "Why...why do you do these things to me?" A hand reached down and gripped the edge of the mattress that arm shaking a little with the strength with which he gripped the sheets. "Don't you know how to be a sensible human being....when somebody cares about you; you don't just walk all over them." John rasped, lifting his head from between his shoulders to stare at the window across from him, his shadow stretching across the bed by the light of the street lamps outside. "You don't go off and leave them for three years and play dead...you don't just bloody well turn up again and expect everything to be alright again." His voice rose as he spoke, only to lower again, laced with hurt, "And you don't go ruining yourself in front of them...and refuse their help." John shook his head and stood up on legs that felt odd and unsteady from sleeping so much. "I can't do it..." John turned around, finally facing Sherlock again, his blue eyes bright with pain and tears he wasn't going to let fall to his cheeks. He spread his hands in defeat, "I can't watch you waste away on drugs and alcohol, I can't watch you take yourself away like that. Not again." His eyes glistened in the dark of the room, chest rising and falling rapidly, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed past a lump in his throat. He shook his head, "Never again..." A muscle in his jaw jumped and twitched as he clenched it tightly shut, staring Sherlock down in his drugged up state, "Sometimes I think... you did all this just to hurt people. We believed in you Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade...and me." John shook his head and looked away, turning and planting an arm against the wall beside the window, pushing one side of the curtains back to look out. "And here you are...coming back here...in pieces. Expect me to pick them up..." He whispered, "with your cocky front you put on...hurt people..." He murmured, the corners of his mouth turning down, his eyes closing, a disobedient tear dropping from the tip of his eyelashes and rolling down to the line of his jaw. He reached up and brushed it away roughly with the heel of his hand, letting out a slow, shaky breath. "Why did you come in here...?” John looked over the line of his shoulder at Sherlock, his voice laced with pain.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock’s body was completely limp as John grabbed his arm. His glassy eyes stared at John and nothing else. His vision blurred and the room spun around him. The shaking male tried to stop it but everything refused to cooperate. ”J-John…I am not hallucinating. I had a dream.” He mumbled as John dropped his hand. Sherlock stared down at his own arm that John had rejected as if it was nothing. The pain in his chest still hadn’t completely disappeared and he stared at the bloody prick mark before lifting his head up off the pillows. Sherlock almost wished he hadn’t moved his head because as soon as he did the room began to spin again. The brunette couldn’t do too much as John went off on his rant, yelling profanities at him, so he just continued to lie still on the bed. The morphine was working its way through his body, making him completely off balance and his judgment completely impaired. However, it didn’t just do this; it also took down the stone wall that separated Sherlock from everyone else, the wall he had between his emotions and the persona he put on for everybody else. It was what stopped him from ever being vulnerable around other people. Not only that but now that his judgment was gone, what was about to come out of his mouth were things that he would never have said in any circumstance.   
  
  
Every jibe, every insult and remark John uttered stabbed him like a knife in the chest. A sober Sherlock would have said something witty or fight the remarks that he knew very well were true. But with the state he was in now Sherlock ended up taking every hit unflinching. His tears had dried up though his eyes remained glassy and while John’s words were sobering, nothing could stop the room from spinning. He stared at John as he grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up into a half sitting position to speak directly into his face. He processed only one of the insults, _‘even if I did fucking love you, you insufferable bastard, I'd rather swallow it and bury it if you're going to treat yourself this way’_. For some reason this stung more than anything. Any remaining spark in his eyes disappeared, becoming almost completely listless.   
  
  
However, he did not stop listening. His limp body fell back onto the bed as he was released again, his icy eyes staring blankly at John with so much guilt and pain. Sherlock tried now to push himself up for he had to say something to stop John. Yet that was when he heard John say that Sherlock was killing him. The words repeated in his head over and over again and reminded him of the image of John laying on the sidewalk with his head smashed from his nightmare. He was killing John? His addiction was hurting him? For the first time now Sherlock’s gaze went circled back around to John, his lips parting to speak. His mouth was dry and tasteless but he struggled to form words anyway, “I am killing you?” The words were hardly audible and so raspy he almost didn’t recognize his own voice. His pale eyes stared up at the back of John’s head and at the gauze patch covering the wound. The wound he could have prevented if he’d been stronger, strong enough to take care of himself. He was hurting John and the pain in his chest worsened as if the doctor himself was ripping a hole through his skin with his words.   
  
  
Sherlock pushed himself up slowly into a sitting position again and he waited until John was done speaking before he tried to move again. His balance was gone completely; however, Sherlock gripped the bedside table and pulled himself onto his feet. His body swayed back and forth, almost losing his balance again. He didn’t look back at John, knowing full well if he did he would fall straight to his knees onto the floor. Sherlock forced his feet to move forward towards the door again, finding handholds along the way. The brunette stumbled a bit, his body swaying back and forth as he went back down the stairs. He clutched at the railing, closing his eyes at the bottom to regain a bit of himself before he continued. It took a few minutes but he was able to find the glass bottle of morphine on the floor in his room. With intense regret, he knelt down, almost losing his stomach in doing so, and picked up the bottle and the syringe. After he had it safely in his grip, he made his way back up the stairs at his sluggish pace.   
  
  
It was faster going up the stairs than it was going down and soon he was back in John’s bedroom, still swaying on his feet. However, he was fighting it, not wanting to show such weakness before John. Sherlock straightened up, trying to remain as composed as ever but he was shaking so hard now he almost dropped the bottle and syringe. He tossed the bottle and the syringe onto the bed between himself and John and said, “Here, my other stash is in the bathroom of the pharmacy two blocks down the road. In the ceiling panel above the middle sink…I didn’t jump off that building to _hurt anyone_. I did it to save everyone. A sniper…Moran was waiting…If I didn’t jump you would have died right there. I came back because I _needed_ you…Those three years were unbearable. Without you…I started doing drugs to keep myself somewhat sane. I kept having nightmares John.” Sherlock let out a laugh, his body swaying unstably and he put out his fingers to balance himself on the edge of the night stand. At this point he thought he was hallucinating and this entire encounter had been a product of the morphine burning through his veins. Soon enough he would wake up on his bedroom floor with a needle in his hand again and a bad taste in his mouth. Until then, he was going to keep explaining, he would try and make this apparition of John understand for maybe it would be easier to explain to the real doctor later. ”I kept reliving that fall over and over and over again. But every time I actually died. There was no magic trick, John. I died over and over again in my head. I _felt_ every second of it, the pain and the impact! I couldn’t keep sane…I just kept seeing you running at me and I couldn’t do anything!” He grinned a little but his pale blue eyes were haunted.   
  
  
”Tonight, I saw you die in my place. I don’t want to see that again John…I don’t want you to die. That’s why I jumped, to save you. So, if I am killing you. Then please leave, tell Mycroft you can’t help me! Tell him move all your stuff back into your apartment! Because everything is going to be okay John! Everything is going to be okay.” He smiled moronically. He must have looked insane by now, but this was all a hallucination so it wouldn’t matter when he woke up. He could say whatever he wanted. ”I’m sorry, but John… I will not take your hand.” With that he turned away and walked towards the staircase. Sherlock’s left leg collapsed under him as he went to take the first step down the stairs, losing his tenuous balance entirely, his hand faulting towards the railing.

 

~ * ~

 

John turned when he saw Sherlock get to his feet off his bed, frowning as he swayed. He walked around the bed to him, prepared to catch him as he flopped around like a fish, but he didn't get a chance to as his friend wobbled out his bedroom door, going downstairs. John frowned, turning back towards his room, scrubbing his hands over his face with a heavy sigh. He knew he should go down and check on his friend...but he was too upset, pacing around his room a few times, trying to find some pants to put on. But he didn't have time to before he heard a foot fall on the stair outside his door. Turning around, he fell still when he saw what Sherlock was carrying. The morphine...and he was telling him where his other stash was. John swallowed, his chest feeling constricted. Pursing his lips, he reached down and picked up the syringe and bottle, seeing it was the same one that had been in the wood box back in Dublin. He frowned, looking up as Sherlock started to explain.   
  
Sherlock jumped...to save him? That ache in John's chest intensified and he took a step towards Sherlock, stopping as he continued. The lump in his throat returned when he was told he was needed...that Sherlock had come back because he...missed him? John breathed in slowly, trying to calm himself. His heart beat a little faster but he was frozen to where he stood, rooted to the spot when he heard Sherlock's words. He dreamed of him, of him dying, it brought him so much pain that he took drugs to block it out. But that just added fuel to the fire that much he knew. John's breath rushed out of him all at once as Sherlock turned, released from his stare and confused by his last words. _My hand...?_ The resigned smile on Sherlock's face made him shiver and he found his legs as the brunette turned himself around and wobbled out of the room. John only had a moment to think and he acted on instinct alone as he crossed his bedroom and passed out onto the landing.   
  
Just as Sherlock missed the first step, John was darting forward, catching an arm under Sherlock's and gripping the banister with his other hand, pulling Sherlock back as he began to fall and grunting as the drugged male's legs slumped under him. They both sunk to the floor on the landing, John wrapping his arms around Sherlock's chest. He was breathing hard, having run to catch his friend before he’d taken a very dangerous tumble down the staircase. He pressed his face down into Sherlock's shoulder as his eyes stung, his hands gripping the front of Sherlock's shirt in fists. "No...don't..." He murmured, sucking in a sharp breath like he'd been plunged into cold water. "Just...stop." He leaned back, pulling Sherlock away from the stairs and turning Sherlock around in his arms, letting him sit on his own and clasping Sherlock's head in both his hands, dropping their foreheads together as he got himself under control again. "Just...stop talking." He whispered, carding his fingers through Sherlock's unruly curls, pulling back to look him in the eye, "And you didn't think...for a second that... I _needed you_?"   
  
John tilted Sherlock's head back and stroked his cheeks with his thumbs. "You idiot..." He whispered with a small smile, the irony clear to him. Who was the idiot now? He didn't allow himself to hesitate any longer, tipping his head forward and slotting their mouths together in a slow, exploring kiss. John's brows furrowed at the strength of his emotions, turning the kiss needy and desperate. He pulled Sherlock closer, gathering him against his chest, his arms wrapped around him with a hand supporting the back of the detective's head.   
  
When the kiss ended, John panted softly, recovering some air to his lungs and looking Sherlock over. The male was still doped out on morphine and John glanced back into his bedroom, remembering that night they'd spent in unawares, cuddling each other in a bed in Dublin. "C'mon..." He murmured, standing and helping Sherlock get to his feet, looping a hand around his wrist and leading him back into his bedroom, keeping him steady when he swayed from the morphine.   
  
Sitting Sherlock down on his bed, John pulled the blankets back and pressed his friend down onto the mattress, helping him get his legs under the blankets as well. John went around the edge of the bed and climbed in next to Sherlock on the other side, turning out the bedside lamp. "You're going to sleep this off...and then we're going to talk in the morning." He was too tired to have that conversation now, and Sherlock was in no frame of mind to do so either. So he curled an arm under Sherlock's head and pulled the taller male onto his side, dragging his body close and holding him tightly. "Go to sleep Sherlock...you won't have any more dreams." He promised, "I won't let you." He smoothed his fingers through those curls, tucking his face into them and closing his eyes. He needed this desperately he knew, he hadn't gotten the chance to embrace Sherlock since his return and he reveled in it now. Sherlock was very much alive, and wasn't ... _too_ much of an ass after all. Sure, he had his issues, but they'd work through them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are finally starting to pick up guys, but I did warn you this was slow building... =]


	8. I'm Just Your Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confusion, Cuddles, and Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I lied. It's actually eighteen pages, not sixteen. But I got this chapter up when I said I would! We're really sorry for the delay but life happens sometimes. There's less angst in this chapter and more feels.

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly as the room felt like it was about to flip as he missed the first step on the staircase. It wasn’t the first time he had ever fallen, obviously. The fall off of the hospital roof was much worse than falling down some stairs in their flat. But Sherlock began to close his eyes any way, letting his limp body lean forward without any struggle because it would be worse to tense up if he was going to take a tumble down the staircase. But before he could topple forward, his body met resistance as an arm caught him around the middle and drug his weight back. Opening his eyes partially, Sherlock found himself being pulled back from danger this time. His head turned slightly, “John?” He mumbled the doctor’s name softly, letting his body go completely slack against John’s as they made a mad sprawl against the floor. Maybe it was the morphine or perhaps the sheer exhaustion. Sherlock slid down with his legs cast out towards the stairs still, half expecting to fall slip onto the floor when John let him go, only to find a warmer body supporting him and clinging tightly to his frame.  
  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his voice more gruff and dismissive to cover up the idiotic tears still welling up in his eyes. Why wouldn’t John not just leave well enough alone? ”W-What, John? Just go tell Mycroft everything. I am not going to stop doing bad, self-destructive things John, no one can tell me to stop.” He spoke rather childishly, his inhibitions lowered due to the morphine in his system still, trying to foolishly disentangle himself from John so he could stumble downstairs and have his sulk in peace. He was hurting John after all, wasn’t he? If he continued to remain by John’s side, then would John not die? The drugs made his efforts to get away and his efforts at thinking clearly almost utterly useless as John simply turned the doped up detective around in his arms and pulled him further from the stairs. Sherlock stared up at John in that moment and he felt himself losing the last shreds of his control, going entirely limp before John could reach up and hold his head in his warm, calloused hands and press their foreheads together. Oh, how Sherlock hated those blue eyes that stared at him now. He was about to speak but John was telling him basically to shut up, but there was something different about this tone for there wasn’t any acid or normal annoyance in the doctor’s words. The tone of John’s voice was softer than usual, almost pained even. Sherlock may have been drugged nearly out of his mind but he could still identify the tones of John’s voice of which he knew all too well. It was different now…something the detective wasn’t used to. Perhaps not pained…but almost tender?  
  
  
Sherlock reached up and grabbed at the front of John’s shirt as the doctor moved his fingers through his hair. This…this was not a hallucination as he’d thought it was; this was _real_. The touch of John’s thumbs against his face was as real as anything he’d ever felt before on one of his trips. Sherlock tried to speak but a dark red flush rising up from his collar prevented him. What was this choked feeling constricting his chest and blocking his throat? His cold eyes opened more as John said that he needed him…He _needed_ Sherlock? The thought skidded across his numbed mind, this new fact now completely settling into place amongst his other neatly kept items of knowledge in his mental mind space pertaining to John Hamish Watson. Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s shirt. A bit of that previous ache in his chest was easing as John spoke and yet it was replaced with something else that the case solving machine was not familiar with. His eyes slipped down to regard John’s lips oddly. Was it the drug that was causing him to act so strangely?  
  
  
Full of confusion, Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when John leaned forward and kissed his lips…He tensed his limp body at first for the contact was foreign and strange. Yet, there was an odd fluttering sensation growing in the brunette’s stomach as they continued. But it took only a moment for Sherlock to let go of his anxiety and the blush on Sherlock’s sharp cheeks to become darker as he leaned into the kiss. His hands traveled up John’s chest and rested a top the doctor’s shoulders as Sherlock leaned in closer to him. It had to be the drug that was making him act in such a fashion because as the kiss continued, Sherlock pressed himself against the doctor as if he was somehow trying to get even closer still.  
  
  
When the kiss ended, dazed and confused, Sherlock leaned back limply against John’s body once again. He wanted to stay there by the staircase and continue this odd new thing, but a yawn escaped his lips and he groaned when John made him get up. Unbalanced, Sherlock kept bumping into John as they walked back into the upstairs bedroom, his head eventually falling onto the other man’s shoulder as he was guided to the bed. Sherlock flopped down onto it, chuckling softly as John moved his legs up onto the mattress for him. ”I am not drugged on drugs, because I am not a druggie with drugs of drugs.” Sherlock’s voice slurred at the end of his garbled sentence, the morphine hitting him in his vulnerable state in full effect, disabling his thinking abilities for the moment. His movements were more willing this time as John positioned himself stretched out by him on the bed. “You have to feed Watson tomorrow.” He mumbled in a softer tone, his voice muffled by John’s T-shirt as he rolled onto his side and pressed his face into the doctor’s shoulder. His glassy, ice blue eyes closed slowly, the last words he spoke trailing off as he fell asleep. ”You can’t break that promise you made me, not ever…”

 

~ * ~

 

John chuckled at Sherlock's confusing words, obviously too strung out to be able to form a coherent thought. He held the detective closer, breathing in the scent of his shampoo from an earlier shower and the sweat that had dried on his skin from the earlier nightmare he had had. "I'll feed Watson..." He murmured, a soft, small smile turning his lips, shaking his head against his pillow, "I promise." Still kind of drowsy for some reason, John found his eyes sliding shut not too long after Sherlock's breathing evened out. He didn't roll away from Sherlock once through the night, keeping to his promises. He wasn't planning on letting go of Sherlock any time soon.

 

~~~~~~

 

When morning dawned, John was awake the moment the light was too bright for him to sleep comfortably in. Seems he had forgotten to close the curtain last night after looking out the window. He regretted it now...but that entire conversation returned to him now in stark clarity and he replayed it over in his mind a few times as he lay there, tangled up in Sherlock. He found that if he tried to gently extract himself, Sherlock's fingers would fist even tighter in the front of his undershirt...so John remained where he was, ignoring the urge to use the bathroom, for now.  
  
As Sherlock began to shift, yawning and burrowing closer to him, John let his fingers play through tousled brown curls, his other arm tucked under his own pillow. "Hmmm..." He sighed, humming softly, opening his eyes for the first time since he'd awoken. "If you want your fish to be fed now, you'll have to let go of me Sherlock..." John murmured amusement in his tone. The clock read nine-forty in the morning, a good hour and a half longer than he usually slept in the mornings. "I take it the morphine has run its course for the most part?" John reached down and pulled the blankets up a little higher so they cast a shadow across Sherlock's face that was turned into his chest. "Good morning." He finally said, rubbing his eyes as they continued to adjust to the light. He propped himself up on one elbow and reached down to gently pluck one of Sherlock's planted hands from his shirt. "Would you like some breakfast?" John moved, finally unable to ignore the call to the bathroom, slowly extracting himself from Sherlock and rolling to his side of the bed, sitting up and stretching his cramped back, wincing at its soreness. Perhaps he needed to see about getting a massage...or an adjustment maybe. The gauze wrapped around his head had shifted while they slept and he reached up, taking it off and checking the gauze pad he had against the wound. It was draining now, healing up. He figured he could just put a smaller stick on bandage over it now.  
  
"And don't steal my sheets..." John murmured as he got up and went downstairs to use the toilet and fix up his wound again. Then he moved on into the kitchen, wearing his sweats and T-shirt still, shivering until he approached the heater controls in the hallway, turning it up. In the kitchen, he put two slices of toast into the toaster and got out the butter and jam, going through the cereal boxes but finding they were all stale. No doubt, Sherlock had ignored any need for grocery shopping. He would have to kip down to Mrs. Hudson's when he was dressed and ask after something to borrow until he could get out today. He put the kettle on, pulling down two cups and the same coffee container they had had three years ago, full of grounds still. The sugar was fine as well, knowing Sherlock took his coffee disgustingly sweet.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock let out a groan. It was good that morphine didn’t give people hangovers or else he would be dying from one at the moment. ”Screw the fish; I have my own Watson now.” He spoke quickly without really processing his words before he spoke them…Wait what happened last night? As he was thinking back, he loosened his death grip on John’s shirt. They…fought. Sherlock went downstairs and came back up to John’s room, told John just about everything and then they-…? Sherlock’s eyes shot open from underneath the sheets. A dark red blush lit up his cheeks for the millionth time in less than twenty-four hours it would seem. The detective attempted to compose himself. However, for the first time in a long time, his attempts failed. ”Yeah…There is nothing to eat in the flat by the way.” He mumbled back, yawning and curling back up on the bed as John got up to investigate downstairs.  
  
He didn’t want to move yet. Why? He didn’t want John to see how red his face was at the moment. Once he heard John go downstairs, Sherlock lifted the sheets back from his face and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t a dream; he had actually kissed John last night. Well, John had kissed him he was being entirely correct, but he’d kissed back. A darker blush replaced first as his light blue eyes flinched at the beams of light cast in shards through the open curtains. Quickly, he wrapped the sheet back around his head to block out the burning light. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it; kissing John that is. It was just plainly confusing. _Pretend it never happened. You were drugged and can’t remember the kiss at all and everything will go on like it was before._ Sherlock nodded to himself as his mind was made up before he sat up and dropped his legs over the edge of John’s bed. He hugged the sheet around his body, raising his brows. ”It’s my sheet now.” He muttered childishly under his breath, standing up. The sheet was wrapped around his head and down over his shoulders like a hooded cloak, his hands clasping it shut in the front so it kept as much of the warmth of his body in as possible.  
  
Letting out another yawn, Sherlock walked down the stairs, the sheet dragging on the floor behind him. He emerged into the sitting room, grabbing his laptop from the desk and walking over to the couch. He plopped down, resting his feet up on the coffee table with his laptop balanced precariously across his knees. Sherlock flicked the laptop open and began browsing websites, trying to find some sort of a distraction from the memories of last night still trying to creep into his thoughts. He flicked through some of the news and even checked John’s blog, glancing at the title of the last case he had posted a few days ago. It was entitled a pathetic ‘ _The Empty House’_ and Sherlock almost made a snide comment to add some normalcy to the flat again with his biting remarks, but he refrained at the last minute. Sherlock sighed and read through John’s retelling of the case over Colonel Sebastian Moran. Once he had finished he went back to browsing through the internet and eventually, curiosity got the better of him and he searched ‘ _how to kiss’_ on Bing. It was odd for Sherlock of all people to be curious about something like this and yet…after last night, he _was_ rather curious. He went through a few websites and videos before his mobile vibrated next to him. _Mycroft_.  
  
Sherlock scowled and shifted in the sheet before picking up the mobile to glance at it, placing the open laptop back on the coffee table as he read:

   
  
 _To: Sherlock_  
 _From: Bastard Brother_  
 _Message: I knew you had it in you._

  
  
  
The message hit him like a brick over the head. Of course Mycroft had put bugs in the flat while they were gone and no doubt was tracking their internet histories as well. He wanted to throttle himself over this brief oversight and he knocked his head back against the wall behind the sofa. His mobile went off again and he glared down at the screen as it lit up with the message:

  
  
  
_To: Sherlock_   
_From: Bastard Brother_   
_Message: That had to of hurt dear brother..._

 

~ * ~

 

John spread some butter and jam over one piece of toast, inspecting it for mold first. But luckily the bread had managed to survive any ill-begotten experiments. He spread butter and honey over the other piece, plating them up and pouring two mugs of steaming hot water from the kettle as it boiled over the hotplate. He added the scoops of instant coffee, not the best kind they'd ever kept on hand, but it'd have to do. Stirring in two teaspoons of sugar into Sherlock's, he decided he'd have to go without cream since there was none on hand. Sherlock didn't take cream anyway...  
  
Bringing it all out on a dinner tray, John set it on the coffee table and handed Sherlock his mug, picking up his own and sipping it as he sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock, having heard the thump of Sherlock’s head hitting the wall from the kitchen, "What on Earth are you doing out here...?" He frowned, grimacing over his coffee cup and switching cups with Sherlock. "Ugh, wrong one, sorry." He sat forward on the edge of the couch, eating his toast over his plate in his lap, having been surprised to find jam in the fridge...and no head this time. In fact, the whole fridge looked brand new.  
  
"Whazzat?" John said around a bit of toast, leaning to the side to see Sherlock's laptop. There was a garishly pink website up with hearts and kissy lipped clip-art all over the place, pictures and descriptive paragraphs under dividing tabs that said things like 'Basics' and 'French'. John felt an embarrassed flush creep up from his collar when he read the website title. "The arts of... _kissing_...Sherlock?" John blinked at him, swallowing the toast that now tasted like cardboard. "God, don't tell me last night was your first?" John's brows rose and he leaned away from Sherlock in pure surprise. "Oooh, my god...it _was_ your first, wasn't it?" He swallowed, a smug smile slowly transforming the surprise on his face. "Well then..." He said around the rim of his cup, "You could've just asked..." He chuckled, turning himself so he could curl one leg over the couch cushions, the other on the floor, his plate held in one hand, coffee in the other. Setting his plate aside, he stretched his arm out along the back of the sofa and propped his head up in that hand, looking at Sherlock's side profile in quiet contemplation. "You know, with how you throw your charm around when you want something, I’d have thought you'd have had more girls chasing after you in academy?" John pushed his lips out in thought, frowning off to the side. "Suppose you'd run then, huh...with them chasing you..." He chuckled at the mental image and leaned forward, shutting Sherlock's laptop with a devious half smile. "Learning such a ‘hands-on’ thing from a website is rubbish anyway. You want to learn..." he leveled his blue eyes at Sherlock, "you've got a teacher."  
  
Standing up, John popped the rest of his toast into his mouth and brought his coffee with him as he left the sitting room. "I'm going to do the shopping; we can't eat toast all week." He set his mug down in the bathroom and closed the door behind himself, starting the water in the shower and stripping off his clothes. Washing his hair was a bit tedious, considering the wound, the soap stinging as he washed around it. He had to carefully dry his head with a towel as well, avoiding the healing gash until he could get a proper bandage back on it again, emerging in his navy blue bathrobe with his empty mug, putting it in the sink in the kitchen before he went upstairs to dress. He noticed his phone was lit up on his nightstand when he came into his room, sighing at the mangled mess his bed was since Sherlock had stolen his sheets.

   
  
 _To: John Watson_  
 _From: Mycroft Holmes_  
 _Message: Sherly used to stay inside during recess, the little girls would follow him around the playground otherwise._

  
  
John pinched his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing, but then he realized...how had Mycroft known that they had been talking about that? He stuck his head out of his room and hollered down the stairs, "Sherlock, something you can do today...find all your brother's bugs!" He heaved a long sigh. Were both Holmes brothers so controlling and completely insane?

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock held the mug John passed him and scowled spectacularly towards a tiny camera he had already spotted sandwiched between a book and the bookcase across the sitting room, “My brother is finding new ways to torment me. Doesn’t he have anything better to do? Like run England!?” Sherlock yelled rather loudly, making sure Mycroft could hear that bit. What was he doing? Just sitting at his desk watching this as if it was some crap telly show? He let out a groan, keeping his hand open as John switched the cups and gave him the sweetened cup of coffee. Sherlock blew on the hot beverage softly, hugging the sheet around his body with his free hand. His cellphone lit up again and Sherlock leaned over to glance at the message with a sulking expression:

  
_To: Sherlock_   
_From: Bastard Brother_   
_Message: Don’t say that._   
_I care about my dearest little brother. I will send you some condoms as my best wishes._   
_Express delivery or shall I bring them over myself?_   


  
Sherlock had been taking a sip of his coffee, choking on it when he read the end of the text and heard John’s comment about the site he was looking at. Damnit! What was it today?! Bug your genius flat mate day? Sherlock coughed and wiped at his mouth, glancing over at John as he wore that damn smug expression. A bright red blush tinted his sharp cheek bones as he quickly looked away. Why couldn’t he hide his emotions anymore? It had to be because John had caught him off guard last night. Sherlock immediately fell into a familiar defensive state and replied, “That was not my first! I kissed a girl named Erica.” He lied quickly. It was the first time he had actually thought about it for John was the first person he had ever truly kissed. Quickly he turned his head away, not wanting John to get the pleasure of seeing what must be easily read from his face. “I have never cared for women who chase after me, was a ridiculous notion.” Sherlock’s phone went off again and the ensuing text read:

  
  
_To: Sherlock_   
_From: Bastard Brother_   
_Message: Lair. Erica was our first hamster when we were boys._   
_Tell him the truth or else I will. Does he know you are a virgin?_

  
  
Sherlock turned his head slightly, looking back at John as he got up and shut his laptop on the coffee table, leaning almost over Sherlock’s lap to do so. There was that same odd feeling in his stomach again and Sherlock’s face felt absurdly hot as John turned those blue eyes on him. John…was going to teach him how to kiss? Nerves shot up and down his limbs and make them numb and weak for a moment. Sherlock was getting nervous. He stared at John for a moment with a slightly wide-eyed expression before he was looking away again, not saying a word. The last time he was this nervous was when he had been a child and he had been in a school play playing Hamlet. The feeling was vaguely familiar and recognizable to say the least. It was easier for him to remember being nervous than some of the other strange feelings he had been getting lately around John, then again he couldn’t remember ever experiencing some of the emotions he’d been made to feel over the last few days with John. Sherlock kept sipping at his mug of coffee and keeping his gaze firmly cast aside until John left the room with the goal of the shopping on his mind. Sherlock’s mobile buzzed once again and Sherlock let out a very irritated huff as he reached for his mobile again:

  
_To: Sherlock_   
_From: Bastard Brother_   
_Message: To the dear virgin; I believe he has figured out how to make you effectively shut your mouth._   


  
If it were at all possible, Sherlock could feel his face heating in even more annoyance and anger this time  and he quickly texted Mycroft back and said:

  
  
_To:Bastard Brother_   
_From: Sherlock_   
_Message: Fuck. Off._   
_You never text, stop texting! You hate texting!_   
_Don’t you dare tell John anything and stay away from Baker Street unless you want a throttling._

  
  
Sherlock tossed his mobile back onto one of the chairs further away so he wouldn’t have to look at his brother’s idiotic replies. He sipped on the last of his coffee and took a bite of his toast before standing up and shifting his eyes around the room. There was an audio bug on the telly, one taped inside the skull, one sliver of a camera on the ceiling and two by the windows. Sherlock finished his toast, hearing John yell back down the stairs to him. What had Mycroft texted him? Sherlock swallowed the last bit of toast in his mouth and it went down rough and scratchy, “Already on it!” That bastard brother of his was not going to watch everything they did, whatever it was they were going to do was going to remain private and out of his brother’s knowledge. They weren’t a couple, at least he thought not. John had feelings for him that much he was sure of. Sherlock stalked around the room collecting the bugs Mycroft had planted in their flat, walking over the coffee table to get to the fireplace and leaping up onto his chair to tear the ceiling camera off with a hand-sized piece of white plaster. While John was upstairs in the shower Sherlock began searching the rest of the rooms in the flat, finding four devices in his room, one in the bathroom of all places, three in the kitchen, an two in the stairwell leading up to their flat and up to John’s room, and six downstairs outside Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Sherlock chucked them all into the bin, giving Mycroft a view of what it’d look like living as trash as he walked back up to the flat, throwing his body violently back onto the sofa. This was going to be one hell of a day, he could already tell.

~ * ~

 

John wasn't an evil person by trait, in fact he was rather kind and caring, and it was why he was such a good doctor. But when someone liked to push his buttons, he didn't have a problem with pushing back. Sherlock had been the source of long suffering for many years, even if it had been a slight necessity in order to save his life. But even before then, Sherlock was hard to live with on the best of days. However, it didn't stop those little annoying feelings from cropping up in John anyway. Only he had a name for them...he cared for Sherlock, he might even love him, but he really didn't want to go down that road quite yet.  
  
So as devious as it was, John decided he would feed his friend a little payback. Nothing too bad, really it wouldn't hurt the man in any way, except perhaps give him a headache. It would also give him something to think on and possibly he would not destroy the flat over it.  
  
John dressed in dark jeans and his navy blue striped sweater, pulling on his leather loafers and his black leather jacket before he pocketed his wallet and his keys and came downstairs. Sherlock had been a very amusing sight for sore eyes downstairs, all blushes and averted gazes. He popped into the sitting room and found Sherlock still wrapped up in his sheet. "You'll put that back, yeah?" He murmured, reaching out and catching a corner of the sheet, tugging it off of Sherlock's head as he leaned down, touching their foreheads together again, blue eyes looking straight into icy greys. "I'm going shopping." He said pointedly, "You'll play nice and not destroy anything right?" He offered Sherlock a half smile, his hand in the unruly hair at the back of the male's head. When he got his reply, he straightened up, his hand sliding out of Sherlock's hair and skimming around the side of his face, his thumb flicking out to caress Sherlock's bottom lip before his arm dropped to his side once more, his other hand casually set in his pocket.  
  
When he turned away, he paused in the doorway to the sitting room and turned around, "Anything you're specifically hungry for or just the 'basics'?" He smirked a little, holding in a laugh when he gave the option of that cheesy kissing website. "I'll be back in an hour." John left the flat with an easy, almost lively gait.  
  
At Tesco he bought more bread, some milk and cream, sandwich fixings, ingredients for a basic Italian dinner, and other bits and pieces of snacks and meals. He and Sherlock used to mainly eat out or order in when they had been living together before, but in the years they were apart, John had learned not to live on that alone any longer. Not only did it get expensive, but it was bad on his health and he really didn't want to add to a paunch he felt he was getting. When he passed through the hygienic aisle for more hand soap for the flat, he passed the Planned Parenthood section and slowly stopped, looking back and then looking either way down the aisle. It was a little early for anyone to be doing copious amounts of shopping...so the aisle was empty. But it wasn't as if any stranger would _know_ anyhow. John scowled because really he was just some bloke, getting a pack of condoms because he was planning on getting off at some point in the future...whether it was near or not didn't matter, as long as he had them on hand. He hadn't bought any in God only knew how long. Besides, it wasn't like the cashier would know his object of affections wasn't exactly of the female variety.  
  
John leaned on the rail of his trolly and pursed his lips at the options. God there was so many types with such ridiculous names like ‘ultra-thin’, or ‘barely there’, ‘spermicide’, and then ‘lubricated’, and ‘magnum’. Holy hell he didn't need _magnum_ , he wasn’t a bloody horse. John closed his eyes, shook his head, and just reached out and grabbed a box on a blind whim. Knowing his luck it'd be ribbed or something stupid like that, but thankfully they looked rather harmless.  They did have a stupid name like ‘Ecstasy’ or something like that...icy/hot? He didn’t know. John finished his shopping rather fast and avoided the chip 'n’ pin machines; not wishing to have another row with one if his card was declined again.  
  
On the cab ride back, John checked the time on his watch. He had been gone a little over an hour and suddenly he remembered he needed to feed Watson the fish when he got back. It was such a silly and telling name to choose for a fish that belonged in a bigger body of water than a tank. John paid the cabbie and dragged his shopping up the stairs, stopping off upstairs in his room to kick the bag with the single box of condoms in it beneath his bed. He deposited the rest of the groceries onto the kitchen table downstairs but left them for the moment as he crossed the sitting room to feed the fish, tapping a little food into the water. The fish swam up to the surface and John paused, reaching a finger inside to stir the water about, chuckling as the koi fish gummed him with his fishy lips. "Poor animal deserves a bigger tank at least..." He muttered, returning to the kitchen to put away his groceries. When he reached up to put the better brand of coffee away on the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard, John hissed as the muscles in his back caught, slowly forcing his arms back down and bracing himself against the counter, hardly able to breath as the pain shot along the muscles of his back. Grunting softly, he turned and leaned up against the edge of the sideboard, trying to stretch his spine, bowing his back a little. But he didn't make much headway and eventually had to hobble over to his chair, easing himself down into it with a wince. He sat on something and found Sherlock's phone under his arse, pulling it out and tossing it over onto the couch. Slowly, the muscles in his back unknotted and he let out a long breath of relief. He had pushed himself too much with all the shopping, for they had needed a lot to replenish the kitchen. Now he was paying for it in full. He needed to see a chiropractor or something about his injured back, most definitely.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock was curled on the couch; hugging at the sheet tightly as his mobile was vibrating on John’s chair…Mycroft was not going to let him ever live this down. If he knew nothing else about that damn man it was that. Sherlock’s eyes glanced upward hearing a pair of footsteps approach him. It was John. ”No, it is my sheet now.” He spoke quickly at John’s comment, looking away from the doctor again quickly. Sherlock needed to find a way to look at John again without feeling so strangely every time, otherwise this may seriously cramp their living situation if he was going to have to start avoiding any and all eye contact with his own flat mate. Quite possibly he could get a pair of sunglasses or a suite of armor, which would do nicely. But what did he feel like he needed to hide anyway? What instinct was telling him to conceal and protect himself in the face of his only friend? Sherlock put on a face of determination as John leaned down and pressed their foreheads together. He could feel John’s hot breath rushing down over his skin and felt it flutter against his cheeks as John spoke.

  
For the first time, those perfect blue eyes stared straight through him like he were an open window and Sherlock found himself holding in a shudder at the exposure he felt. Perhaps John was trying to hypnotize him into doing good things and being nice to people, like _Anderson_ , the thought made him want to scowl. Sherlock fidgeted at the closeness between them, trying to lean his head back and away from John, “Nicotine patches, fish food, and Anderson’s head would be lovely.” The words left his mouth a little snappish and he sniffed and looked away as John continued to examine his expression. Perhaps he wasn’t as uncomfortable with such closeness and near intimacy but it still felt awkward to accept, especially when John’s hand was running through his hair as if they were already lovers or something. However, they weren’t lovers or anything of the sort. They were flat mates. John was just messing with him, trying to confuse his head. The more John got closer, the more he couldn’t tell his heart from his head. Sherlock let out a sharp breath as John drew away and as the doctor moved to exit the flat, the fog finally cleared from his mind and he bellowed down the stairs from his spot on the sofa, ”You have one hour! If you’re late, you will need another bio-hazard team!” Sherlock hugged the sheet tightly shut once more and glowered at anything and everything in the sitting room before he flopped over onto his side and roughly turned over with his face pressed into the back of the couch.  
  
Another sharp breathe huffed past his lips once he heard John close the door to their flat downstairs. The doctor was going to use his knowledge of Sherlock’s ignorance to his advantage, he was sure. So Sherlock would have to prepare and after a few minutes of lying down thinking about the sorts of revenge he could have on John and maybe even Mycroft; the detective quickly sat up with his icy blue eyes gazing around himself at their flat. John was bisexual! At least he thought that was the term for it; people who are attracted to both female and males, regardless of their own gender. With his sudden epiphany, Sherlock stood up, still hugging the sheet to his form. He had to figure out a way to stop John’s cruel plans or else he would be constantly tormenting him until he could learn a way to control and hide his reactions to John. But the question was how? Sherlock began pacing up and down the sitting room, no doubt driving Mrs. Hudson nuts a floor down.  
  
Why was John doing this? Mycroft was right, John had found the one thing that he could exploit that could completely shake Sherlock up and throw him off his usual sarcastic and witty ways. To stop this he would have to show John that he was utterly unaffected and that the kiss shared on the stairs the night before had only been reciprocated by a drug induced man. He would have to prove to John that he was _not_ a virgin and was _not_ afraid of sex so it wouldn’t become a weapon for the doctor. Wait! Sherlock stopped pacing, hearing the sound of Mrs. Hudson yelling from downstairs in her irritation at his frantically pacing feet. John was acting in such a fashion not just to tease him but also, no doubt, because of what had happened the night before. It was all but a hazy memory to Sherlock but he concentrated back. He traced his own lips with his index finger…He could still feel the warmth…

  
Sherlock had to snap himself out of it with a sharp shake of his head, “Concentrate! Damn it! What has he done to you? He hasn’t touched you in any all too intimate way…nor have we said anything to personal to one another.” His jaw almost dropped open when he remembered the last piece of the puzzle as it fitted all the facts together. He had told John everything last night, the entire and whole truth with all the nitty-gritty pieces. He had told John that he _needed_ him for chrissake. Hell, he’d even told him about the continuous nightmares he had been having that night and the many nights before. Now that Sherlock remembered what he’d done he could now understand why John was treating him differently now. Was Sherlock seen as the weaker individual now because he’d admitted a personal need that wasn’t something so basic as sleep or food? No, he wasn’t being treated as the weaker link, but perhaps like he was more human and vulnerable. So, all he had to do was be a heartless case solving jerk focused entirely on his work. Sherlock could always take some drugs again if he wanted to distance himself quickly from John. But no, he couldn’t hurt John like that again. He wanted John to stop teasing him, not for John to leave the flat. If he was to do drugs again, it would push John over the edge and he would quite possibly never see his doctor again.  
  
Sherlock let out a groan and picked up his violin from the windowsill, finding he needed an outlet to calm his nerves. The Stradivarius had been cleaned and tuned in his absence, no doubt by his brother’s henchmen. For once, Mycroft’s foot men had done something useful. Sherlock picked up the bow and positioned his chin against the chin guard of his beloved instrument. He drew the bow back with his right arm and began to play, sweetly drawing the bow across the strings. He played out a few songs from Beethoven’s violin concerto, moving onto Vivaldi’s Season of Winter, and finishing up with a few pieces he had composed over his three year long separation from London. They were all distractions, he needed to be distracted while he fought this war against whatever was relentlessly clenching inside his chest. Sherlock had been playing for a good hour by now, still wrapped up in John’s bed sheets and completely unchanged, save for his position in the sitting room. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to play a song by [Yiruma](http://www.gaiaonline.com/gaia/redirect.php?r=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DYj56nFAjnq0). He could hear John coming up the steps to their flat somewhere in the middle of it but he didn’t care, continuing to play out the piece. Once it was done Sherlock placed his violin back on the desk and dropped down onto the rug, stretching out on his back staring up at the ceiling, “John! I am bored! Give me your gun!”

 

~ * ~

 

John had been enjoying Sherlock's violin playing when he had returned to the flat, but he knew it wouldn't last, so when the music stopped and Sherlock set his violin aside, only to collapse onto the floor in a lazy sprawl; John got up to hunt up some aspirin. He heard Sherlock's comment from the kitchen as he washed down the pills with some water, from a different bottle he kept upstairs rather than from the one Sherlock had had him take from...  
  
"Ha!" he snorted, shaking his head, "Yeah, _no_." He murmured, "So you can ruin the flat again? I don't think so." John had taken the gun back the day before on the train; he would clean it and put it back together either this evening or tomorrow. Never knew when you might need it when you lived with a man like Sherlock. "Why don't you," John moved back into the sitting room to clear the dishes and tray from breakfast, leaving Sherlock's half drank cup of coffee, "do some experiment, a nice quiet one...without corrosives or body parts or involving any kind of ballistics." John sighed, because normally you wouldn't have to give those sorts of restrictions for people. But he'd learned that with Sherlock, you did. "Or read a book...watch some of that crap telly you've been up to." John set the mugs upside down on the dish rack to dry, along with the plates. "I got your nicotine patches..." He muttered, hooking a thumb over at the box on the worktop in the kitchen, "and Watson's fish food." He frowned, because it was odd to say his own name when it pertained to a fish. "But I was a little hard pressed for time to squeeze in Anderson's beheading." He looked at Sherlock on the floor with a disapproving glance.  
  
Picking up his laptop, John sat back down with it in his chair and booted it up, pulling up his email and checking through it. Since he'd posted about the case of ‘ _The Empty House’_ , the hits on his blog had sky-rocketed again as people's interest in Sherlock Holmes and his adventures returned tenfold. It made John a little bitter since a lot of the readers had believed Sherlock had been a fake...but then there were the true supporters, the types of strangers who would send him emails to check up on him, offering their condolences for the loss of his friend. Those subscribers had helped get him through a dark time in his life...  
  
Though he was glad the readers were returning, John wasn't one hundred percent pleased with the types of attention it was drawing back to him and Sherlock. There had been annoying comments before about their 'ambiguous friendship' three years ago, but there were even more now, considering his reunion with Sherlock was made public, no thanks to a statement made by Lestrade describing the whole 'punching the detective in the jaw and dislocating it'; thing...  
  
John had to pick through his emails more carefully these days, due to these little bombshells some of their fans liked to impose on them. The worst part was...the fanfiction and erotic art. For one, until recently, John hadn't even considered that such a thing would crop up on the internet after they had acquired their little following. It had been just downright embarrassing and John hadn't shared any of the emails with Sherlock, aside from the ones involving a case---and Sherlock hadn't asked, feigning disinterest in his blog. He did his friend a favor by now posting _his_ email on the site for it would get spammed constantly. Thankfully, they hadn't found Sherlock's trolling email. When that day came, and he knew it was only a matter of time, he hoped Sherlock would take the fanatic things with a grain of salt. But...sometimes they were just downright disturbing. For one, how the hell could John ever get pregnant from having sex with Sherlock?  
  
Rolling his eyes, John sighed and scanned through his emails, opening one that looked innocent enough...only to find a drawing of a very...anatomically correct drawing of him and Sherlock sharing a bath. John couldn't stop the flush rushing to his cheeks and cleared his throat, also unable to keep himself from staring at a drawn representation of Sherlock's round posterior. John quickly closed his laptop, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. Didn't these people have better things to do with their time then fantasize about something so private? He glanced up at the sofa where Sherlock's mobile was still vibrating every ten to fifteen minutes. "Why don't you just turn it off...?" He muttered, setting his laptop back on his desk and peering down at Sherlock on the floor. He really didn't have anything to occupy himself with either, considering their last case was a bust and completely insane...if he were to post that case, everyone would think they had gone off the deep end. He wondered to himself, not for the first time since yesterday, if they had lost all sanity. Maybe this was all an illusion of their minds and they were institutionalized somewhere instead.  
  
Pursing his lips, John squatted down over the floor beside Sherlock, his arms folded across his bent knees. "Well, you could always compose...you haven't written anything for your violin in a while." A shining gleam appeared in his blue eyes and he kept a pretty good straight face as he teased, "Or we could do a lesson off that snogging site you were trolling this morning." Breaking out into a grin, John stood and set his hands in his pockets, never expecting anything but scowls to come from his baiting.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock let out an irritated groan at John’s response. His hands slapped the floor underneath him in a sign of boredom and almost retaliation in some way. ”Yes, _Captain_.” He said in a mocking tone. He didn’t usually use John’s old titles to tease him. The detective sighed and banged the back of his head down onto the floor again, “A ‘nice’ experiment? You mean dissecting a piece of rotten fruit? John…the nice experiments are not challenging enough for me, you know that! How will doing a harmless experiment expand my knowledge?! I am a consulting detective. Not some child in their science fair project.” As a matter of fact for his first science project in school he had found a severed arm of some animal and used it to calculate the rate at which the arm was decaying. Only he cut the arm up more and showed how it decayed in different environments. The school had been pleased with his brilliance…Mycroft had not so pleased and had kept saying Sherlock was going to become a serial killer one day.  
  
Sherlock banged the back of his head on the floor a few more times. ”I have already read any books that might have ever interested me. The books that are coming out now are all about _teenage romance_.” He swung his arms wildly in the air while making a kissy face. ”Oh no! My best friend’s bother is a merman! What ever should I do?! I-I-I love him but he is my best friends brother! And he has the tail of a fish! What ever shall I do?!” Sherlock made a feminine voice, slapping his hands down onto his face in frustration when he’d finished.  
  
The brunette let out another groan and began rolling back and forth on the floor, the sheet still wrapped around his body. The chances he would be leaving the flat today were almost nonexistent, unless Lestrade called with a case anyway. He stopped his rolling and glanced over at the kitchen where John was still toiling away, interested only because the doctor had mentioned his nicotine patches. It was a good thing John had gotten them because he was going to need them now that he was so unbelievably bored. If he wasn’t going to be doing drugs than he would need something else to distract him. A slight pout pinched Sherlock’s lips as John said he couldn’t behead Anderson with the time he was given. ”Try again next time. Killing that man would raise the IQ of England by a third.”  
  
Sherlock stayed where he was on the floor for a time, his eyes following John as he got his laptop and took a seat. Things were almost like nothing had ever happened last night, it was so bloody normal, which beat actually discussing the awkwardness from last night he supposed. Sherlock eyes fell on John as he found something interesting on his laptop. Was he blushing? John didn’t usually blush when he looked at porn. A brow rose, studying John’s expression more closely. He was looking at that damn _art_ the fans sent in. Sherlock refused to look at it himself. Anything of that kind failed to get his interest. However, watching John blush did get his interest. Sherlock was about to push himself off the floor but John shut the laptop before he had the chance. There goes that form of entertainment.  
  
”I am timing how long it takes for Mycroft to send in one of his footmen to see how we are doing.” Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, hearing the mobile vibrating against the couch. Sherlock peered up, looking at John as he squatted besides him. Sherlock needed something challenging, he needed something to keep him from being bored. The longer his mind remained inactive, the more he craved the numbness of the drugs. A frown crossed Sherlock’s lips as John suggests he make some more music. He had already played today, and besides, he was not concentrating easily and playing his violin all day would likely give him a headache. Sherlock paused when John teasingly suggests that he could have his first lessons on how to kiss…  
  
Sherlock slowly sat up on the floor, looking up at John. Well, he needed a challenge. The act of learning wouldn’t just be a challenge however, if he could keep an emotionless expression, it would also be a step in the right direction of getting past these confusion feelings around John. The detective pushed himself up off the rug, still hugging the white sheet around him. “Fine. Teach me. Never know when I might need to suddenly seduce someone while on a case.” He goaded.

 

~ * ~

 

John had bristled a little when he heard Sherlock call him 'Captain.' He hadn't been called that in a very long time and it sent a spark of recognition down his spine. It was...vaguely a turn on to hear the title in Sherlock's voice, even if it was in a mocking tone. He'd like to smack a little of that mocking tone right out of his voice...But he forced that dark, private thought away with a small smirk of his own.  
  
Sherlock was impossible when he was bored, rolling around and hitting his head on things like a child. It was annoying, had been three years ago and still was now. Only now...there were certain things that could be used as a distraction. John had unintentionally found one of those distractions that shut his friend up nicely, for a time. "I will kill a bad man with bad intentions for you Sherlock, but I won't kill a stupid man." He murmured, "Waste of a perfectly good bullet." He muttered with a sour look at his friend. Friend, love interest, whatever the hell they were now. John was putting off the inevitable discussion and he knew it. But just the thought of broaching it was painful in his mind, so he kept those words to himself, unfortunately.  
  
He knew he wanted more than just this back and forth companionship with Sherlock...that he had come to terms with the night before, or perhaps it was the day before that...maybe it had happened while they had been in Ireland. He wasn't quite sure, but right now...he had Sherlock's scarf hidden away until a time he could use an excuse so he could launder it. After all, there was a bit of blood and a God awful amount of tears on it still.  
  
Frowning down at Sherlock, who was sitting up with a challenging glint in his eye, as if he thought John would back out---John held up one finger, "On one condition." He waited, making sure he had Sherlock's undivided attention. "That you do not kiss anyone in the same manner...with which I am going to do so now." He pursed his lips and closed his jaw tightly, swallowing down the embarrassment from saying such a bold thing. But with Sherlock, it had to be stated plainly.  
  
Once he had his answer, John turned and walked to the sitting room door, closing it so that Mrs. Hudson would be forced to knock if she had any reason to visit them. Turning, he glanced at Sherlock sitting on the floor, and then glanced at the couch. Well, the floor was hardly comfortable. "Come over here." He invited softly, sitting down on the edge of the sofa, feeling a flush creep up from his collar, his hands braced against his thighs. He watched Sherlock move, then angled his body more towards his friend, glancing up from under heavy brows a few times before he took a deep breath and ignored the thoughts in his head that were screaming that this was idiocy and complete faggotry. He wasn't gay...he knew that, he was just a moon orbiting the great Sherlock Holmes, that wasn't exactly a sexual orientation.  
  
"You need to relax." He told Sherlock this and was also telling himself that, comparing this awkward moment to all the first kisses he'd had with all his girlfriends, all the way back to his academy days. Nothing had been this bad, except that time he'd missed when he'd been real nervous the first time. He wouldn't miss now. John told himself this was a test and it made him feel a little better about it, besides this wasn’t technically their first kiss but their second. If he could approach it like a problem, or something curious, it wouldn't be so bad. John had kissed Sherlock last night, but he had been overcome with emotion and exhaustion. He reminded himself of the fear from their time in Ireland, the warmth of Sherlock's scarf around his neck, the grip of his hand around his arm, the heat of his body trapped under his under that damn bookcase. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching up a soft, gentle hand to touch Sherlock's cheek. He turned his wrist and gripped Sherlock's chin, pulling him forward some by his firm hold on his face, "You're too far away." His words sounded distant, even to him...a little entranced perhaps.  
  
By God, he was doing this...  
  
John licked is lips as an afterthought, his fingertips skimming the line of Sherlock's hard, straight jaw, following the harsh line until it reached the ear before his hand turned, slipping his fingers into those plush, sleep tousled curls, dragging Sherlock's head closer as he leaned in, angling his head to line up their faces, one nose to one side, one chin to the other, each mirrored until John let their lips touch. He kept his eyes open for a moment, but they flickered closed as he drew in a long breath through his nose, fingers gripping curls tightly, lips pushing against lips softly. He varied the pressure of the kiss, murmuring from the corner of his mouth to Sherlock, who was still awkwardly frozen, "Close your eyes."  
  
Having one hand braced along the back of the sofa, John let instinct dictate his movements. Sherlock's mouth was soft and warm, not hard and biting like the words he thrust from it so often. He felt a tremble in the bottom lip and ventured to suck on it a little, pulling on that bottom lip with flat, gently nipping teeth. One kiss turned into another and John let them continue spiraling, all higher thought slowly melting away as he let himself get lost in the sensations of it. Teasing fingers traced the curve and shape of Sherlock's ear, following the column of the neck and tracing the line of the collar to the hollow of the throat. John pulled back to catch his breath, his first two fingers hooked under the collar of Sherlock's shirt, just resting there, as if keeping him there. "Ready for your test...?" He murmured, but the words lost their teasing nature because he was slightly breathless and flushed. "Now you...you kiss me." He murmured, blue eyes looking up from Sherlock's mouth to peg his own gaze down.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything when John mentioned that he would kill a man for him. Well, he didn’t say anything because he knew it was true. The first case they had ever been on together, John had proved himself to be more loyal than people he had known for a far longer period of time. After all, he had killed a man to save Sherlock during that case. Most people saw him as an inhuman and heartless person and yet John was willing to kill for him soon after meeting him for the first time. John had been in the army, no doubt killed many people before. However, the doctor was more sensitive and caring than most individuals and Sherlock was aware that any amount of death took its toll on the doctor, bad man or not. It was not a flaw…that day John had shot another man who was threating the detective’s life, and in this moment something clicked for him. It had never really made sense for Sherlock until now.  
  
The detective was slightly surprised that John actually agreed to teach him. John was not gay. He had never seen his friend with another man before and had deduced that his experience and track record could only ever be on the side of women. The detective’s sexuality was something else entirely though and until this point he had considered himself completely asexual. He had never been attracted to anyone until now, no matter the beauty or the innocence in a person, Sherlock could always find flaws and holes to tarnish their image. In order to have a lover or be in a relationship, for Sherlock that would mean he would have to find someone he was not only attracted to, but also got along with fairly well. Sherlock knew hardly anything about relationships in the sense of his own person. When it came to deducing facts about the relationships between other people it was no problem. However, the thought of entering into one himself was impossible to stomach. Sherlock was married to his work and nothing else. Nothing mattered more to him than his work. Then again, that was before he’d jumped off the roof at St. Bart’s.

  
Sherlock’s left brow rose when John stated his condition, that he didn’t want Sherlock to kiss anyone else in the manner he was about to learn. Until this point, the detective had remained completely composed. The comment didn’t make him blush but it did make his heart clench oddly in his chest. A few more pieces of this odd puzzle clicked together in his head. John didn’t want him to kiss anyone else. After last night, he could deduce that John had feelings for him, and yet hearing words that almost proved those emotions coming from John’s lips while he was sober and drug free was something entirely different. _John had feelings for him._ The thought lingered in his head heavily. It wasn’t shouting at him or whispering softly, it was just there like a physical weight. The piece of information wasn’t stored with the countless amounts of facts already cluttering his mind palace. Instead it merely floated there, free as a bee, as if he didn’t know where to put it. ” _Fine_ , we will just practice together.”  
  
After the words left his mouth, he watched John take a seat on the couch. Slowly and a bit awkwardly he followed, sitting next to John. It was horrible and a bit uncomfortable, knowing what they were about to do. Despite that, he knew things were not going to suddenly get better. After last night, thoughts of that hazy first kiss were unleashing a large amount of awkward feelings into Sherlock. Avoiding John wasn’t exactly an option, he realized. He had spent the last three years alone, waiting to come back to 221B with John and now that he was here, he wasn’t about to run. These strange feelings weren’t going to kill him, or at least that’s what logic told him. John clearly had feelings for Sherlock and while Sherlock couldn’t figure out his own, he was positive he at least _liked_ John. Hell, he liked the doctor enough to jump off of a hospital rooftop for him and give up the drugs for him.  
  
Sherlock had to resist the urge to say something when John told him to relax. His body was stiff and tense and he released a heavy breath, turning his head to return John’s gaze. From what he could remember of last night, he had liked kissing. This was going to be his test. Whether to see if his previous reaction was all due to the morphine or if this was something else entirely. This was completely new to him and Sherlock awkwardly kept to his side of the sofa at first. Yes, he had seen people kiss in movies and on television. However, he had only kissed one person so far and that was John. His eyes followed John’s hand as he reached up and grabbed the detective’s chin firmly and pulled him closer. Still, there was no blush or a strange feeling in his stomach as he’d felt that night. He blinked with a look of expectancy at John and slowly he inched his body closer until their knees touched at John’s insistence. ”Better?” He asked softly with raised brows, the remark meant to be a bit mocking but coming out of his mouth entirely flat.  
  
Sherlock was not nervous or embarrassed in any way just yet and their knees were just touching, his friend still holding onto his chin with one hand. He was tensing up the longer he waited for John and his mind was starting up a chant of: ‘It was the morphine, it was the morphine,’ over and over again. There was no way he was going to react the same way as he had last night, it had just been a mishap of biology and his own had been rather disabled at the time. The detective was positive of this as he watched John lick his lips and felt the doctor’s hand slide back, fingers entangling in his brown curls. So the situation became stranger to him still, but he remained unmoved. That was until John leaned in closer, planting a soft kiss on his lips. The detective’s eyes widened a little at the soft sensation and unexpected tenderness, feeling his chest constrict. He took a breath in but he never released it as if it was stuck somewhere in his chest unwilling to come out again. A faint blush now dusted his cheeks and if John hadn’t said anything, Sherlock would have stayed there like that, a rock solidified on their sitting room sofa.  
  
Sherlock blinked his icy blue eyes at John’s words; slowly closing them…He had to relax. Slowly, he reached up, grabbing onto the bottom doctor’s sweater tightly, just above his waist. A shiver ran down the younger male’s back, his lips trembling softly as his body began to relax against John’s. His hand that was gripping John’s sweater tightened in a fist, finally releasing his breath through his nose. That strange fluttering feeling in his stomach returned as John bit and sucked on his lower lip. Sherlock’s mind drew a blank, his other hand grabbing onto John’s leg before sliding up to his chest and coming to rest over John’s heart.  
  
There were only a few times when Sherlock could ever stop himself from thinking and that was when he had overdosed in his younger years and now, it seemed, whenever he kissed John too. The one detached and tensed male let go of himself, kissing John back as they continued, breaking through a few outer walls of Sherlock’s defenses. It was almost as if he had forgotten everything else up to this point as his lips touched John’s. It should have been frightening and disorienting, and yet he kept going. Another shiver shot down his spine as John gently ran his fingers along his earlobe and as John pulled away, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, panting softly. Meeting John’s gaze again, his cold and emotionless expression was gone. The brunette was breathing heavily, a deep red hue spread across his sharp cheek bones, and a soft gentleness flashing in those icy blue eyes. Sherlock didn’t answer John when he asked him if he was ready for his test… he just went for it.  
  
The younger male licked his lips the same way John licked his lips, wondering if it were a necessary thing before kisses. He kept his right hand tightly clasped at the front of John’s sweater while his left hand moved up a bit more and gripped the sweater over the doctor’s shoulder. Without giving himself the chance to think, the detective leaned in towards John, tilting his head to the side and placing a needier kiss on his lips, their mouths slotting together with heat and softness. Curiously, he parted his lips slowly and licked at John’s lower lip as the doctor had done, tasting it for himself. Keeping his eyes closed, his left hand slowly relinquished its hold on John’s sweater, his fingertips gently tracing along the side of John’s neck above his collar. He kissed John again, trying to move closer to the good doctor’s body. The younger male’s chest pressed firmly against John’s as he continued to gently kiss the other, a little more insistence and desperation bleeding into each one. It took a few moments before they broke apart again and dazed, Sherlock slowly drew back in confusion; it was not the morphine after all.

 

~ * ~

 

John had never seen Sherlock flushed such a healthy shade of pink before in all the time he had known him. When they both drew back, each panting for air slightly, John let himself cast a look over his flat mate's face, feeling his throat ache to swallow around when he saw the look reflected back at him. Sherlock was dazed, that was probably the best term for it. But it wasn't his stillness or even the blush dusted across his cheeks that made John ache to gather him into his arms. It was the softening around those cool, detached eyes that made every question about their moments together fly out the window. He didn't question anything in this moment, his hands on Sherlock, feeling the weight of Sherlock's hands on him. He was caught up in the realness of the moment, watching Sherlock who was watching him, one of his warm hands pressed against his striped sweater just over his wildly beating heart. John straightened a little when Sherlock moved, shifting his hand away from his chest to grip at his shoulder. He remained perfectly still, as if he might frighten Sherlock away at any moment like some woodland creature.  
  
He witnessed, as if he were detached from his own body, viewing this moment in a third person embodiment; John saw Sherlock's pale eyes close as he dropped towards him, lowering his head, tilting his chin. Sherlock was a fast learner, only the kiss he delivered now was far more attached than their first had been. Sherlock's lips were hot and wet this time, making John let out a short gasp, his fingers curling into a fist in the collar of Sherlock's sleep shirt and his bed sheets. His lips parted under the detective's curious experiment, feeling the soft, cool rasp of his tongue against his own lower lip. John couldn't hold in the moan that sounded in the bottom of his throat from that contact. The hesitant fingertips that reached for his neck made him shiver and John gently pushed the sheet that had been wrapped around Sherlock; off his shoulders, letting his hands slide down the narrow waist, getting swept up into the intensity of their shared moment as one kiss bled into another once more. Sherlock pulled himself closer to John, using his body as leverage to press their chests together, nearly sitting in John's lap to do so.  
  
The good doctor's fingers couldn't help their gentle slide beneath the soft cotton shirt Sherlock wore, letting his gentle, soothing fingers slide up Sherlock's back, feeling the notches of his spine from where they protruded through painfully thin skin. John felt an ache in his chest bloom like a wicked wildflower and he tightened his hold around Sherlock, even as the other male began to pull away, breaking the kiss and letting their trance-like state recede. John worked to get his breathing under control again, his thumb stroking back and forth against Sherlock's side where it rested just below his ribcage. "Sherlock-.." John's voice caught strangely and he cleared his throat, brows furrowing. He looked up at his friend and tried for a serious tone but ended up just sounding like a startled animal. "I-...don't think you've...got it quite yet." He murmured, John's hands sliding down over Sherlock's hips and curling around the top of his arse, tugging him forward even more before he tucked his hands in around Sherlock's face and kissed him slowly, not allowing it to get too needy as it had when Sherlock kissed him. He kept it slow, almost lazy, keeping a tight rein on his passions and simply feeling Sherlock's mouth, his lips, and his tongue. He slid his tongue across the seam of Sherlock's lips at one point, baiting him to open his mouth, skimming the wet appendage across the detective's, memorizing the texture of it. He stroked Sherlock's hair back at one point, the curls falling between their foreheads and tickling John's face. He also dipped his head at one point, testing out another theory. Sherlock would be so proud. He broke the kiss to brush his cheek against Sherlock's in his endeavor to catch an earlobe between his lips, tracing the outer shell of the male's ear with the tip of his tongue, his hands sliding along the tops of Sherlock's thighs to settle on his hips, brushing his thumbs back and forth over the sensitive skin stretched over the hollows of his hips, just visible over the edge of Sherlock's pajama bottoms.  
  
John did, however, begin to pull away when they were both thoroughly breathless. If he was going to continue, the erection he was working on would be noticeable through a tent in his pants. Thankfully, he hadn't yet reached that point...  
  
Looking Sherlock over, John leaned back against the arm of the sofa and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to assemble together some form of composure when all he wanted to do was push Sherlock down on the sofa and map out other regions of his pale skinned body. But that was a little too fast he thought, even for him. By the expression Sherlock had worn after kissing him the first time, he figured the detective was a spot of confused by now. John reached out; found Sherlock's hand which had slipped off of him when he'd leaned back. He twined their fingers together, gave it a little tug, pulling Sherlock forward by his hold on his hand, then his wrist, then his upper arm until he had Sherlock resting against his reclined form. He closed his denim blue eyes and sighed, staring at the opposing wall. The conversation was going to happen, it had to...but he wanted to dwell in those kisses a little longer first. What mattered was...Sherlock had kissed back, and it hadn't been just some experiment. That much, John could see. Sherlock's head was on his chest and John tipped his head forward, his nose poking into the messy curls atop his head. "That was... _amazing_ " he murmured, in the same tone of voice he had used on that first case with Sherlock so many years ago, that moment of awe after Sherlock had revealed the quick workings of his mind, which was not achieved by simply kissing the bastard. Seemed a whole lot easier though...

 

~ * ~

 

He didn’t respond to John’s words, which had left him more confused than before. Was he doing something wrong? Sherlock didn’t have the time to contemplate over the strange tightness in his chest as John’s hands moved to find their way to his waist. The lingering blush darkened at the touch of the doctor’s fingers above his arse. He was about to look back at John’s hand before he was tugged forward and drawn into another warm and tender kiss. Sherlock was slowly pulled back into whatever trance John was putting him in, his thoughts of confusion fading to nothing. Without noticing, his heartbeat quickened above its normal pace and his eyes dilated even though they were closed. The tight grip that he kept on John’s shirt gradually eased, his fists going slack.  
  
As John’s tongue brushed against his own lips, curiously and yet instinctively, he parted his lips. Sherlock’s eyes flickered open for a moment as he felt John’s tongue move against his own. He leaned into the kiss more, tasting John’s saliva as their tongue’s brushed against each other; it was strange at first but he liked it. Sherlock moved his tongue against John’s, getting more comfortable with the act, becoming more emboldened. That was before John decided to break away, earning a frown from Sherlock’s now lonely lips. His eyes opened slowly as John’s cheek brushed against his own, “Hmm?” At first he thought something was wrong, was he really bad at this? However, he was pulled back into a daze as a soft wetness enveloped his earlobe, John’s lips closing about the bud of flesh carefully. Sherlock’s lips parted and a soft sound escaped; a sound of pleasure. A moan? It sounded similar to the text message sound Irene set his mobile to all those years ago. The blush on his cheeks became a vivid red, his hands clutching at the doctor’s jumper again. The fluttering in his stomach got worse as well as the constricting ache in his chest. Yet it didn’t stop there, for as John moved his hands to gently rub at the soft patch of skin along his lower back, he felt an odd feeling that he hadn’t felt since he was a young teenage boy, back in the days when a man was discovering his body.  
  
Sherlock was happy that John pulled away when he did or else things might have gotten awkward rather quickly. The detective panted softly, his clear blue eyes looking at the floor. He was slowly withdrawing from whatever trance John had kept him under while they’d kissed, his heart racing along in his chest as though he was experiencing the excitement he got from a case. Yet there was no case, it was just John. As a way to try and stop his confusion, he touched his own wrist to take his own pulse for valid evidence. Maybe he was still recovering from the morphine, but that was an incredibly stupid hypothesis when he knew fully well that the effects of the drug had worn off earlier this morning. There was still morphine tracing through his system but nowhere near enough to cause any of these symptoms. It had already run its course through his body and was now dying off. The only thing he had to eat or drink was the breakfast John had prepared for him. To assume that John would do something so heinous as to drug his food was below Sherlock’s reasoning. The one person, who would do just about anything to stop him from doing drugs, giving him something on the sly was not something Sherlock would even waist time analyzing further. Whatever was happening to him was because of him and his body, and that alone.  
  
Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted when John grabbed him and tugged him back against his body. The younger male didn’t resist and leaned back against John’s form instead, his head leaning willingly against John’s chest. Sherlock’s body relaxed again; shutting his eyes for a moment. Being near John now made his heart race that much he could determine, though the emotions that caused that physical reaction were still quite foreign to him. His eyes flickered open as John’s nose brushed against his curly mess of hair. A lingering red tint remained on his sharp cheek bones as he tried to look up at John but decided against it. More eye contact would lead to more embarrassment after what had just happened between them. And yet John’s words easily made that blush darken, “Yes…You are a very good teacher.” He agreed, his voice being muffled slightly with his face half turned into John’s sweater. “Was that a French kiss?” He asked lazily, still oddly lethargic from the spell woven by their intimacy, “I think I understand why people enjoy it so much now, that is to say enjoy kissing.”  
  
Perhaps he would need to research this odd feeling online or read another of those god awful romance novels. _Why a romance novel?_ It wasn’t like Sherlock actually-…He paused a bit, his emotions starting to take a strange turn for understanding, “John…how do you feel about me?” The words left his mouth without any preamble and hung in the air, unable to snatch them back. The great detective, emotionless case solving machine, was talking about emotions and feelings? Mycroft would choke on his cake if he were watching this…

 

~ * ~

 

The echoes of the sounds he had extracted from Sherlock still swirled in John's head when the taller man broke his silence. He chuckled softly, the sound deep and resonating in his chest where Sherlock laid. "Yes, that was how the French do it." John looked up at the ceiling, his head resting along the arm of the sofa. "I'm..." John hesitated, clearing his throat, raising his brows at the speckled ceiling plaster, "I'm glad you…enjoyed that." He frowned at his own words, wondering when he'd started sounding like a corny character from one of those teenage romance novels Sherlock had been making fun of earlier in the week. But even now, running his hands along Sherlock's boney shoulders and upper arms, one of which was draped over the arm of the couch beside his head where he'd tugged it---he wanted to continue this 'lesson' he was giving...or perhaps he was being given the lesson. _All in good time, old boy..._ John sighed and closed his eyes. But they flew open again when Sherlock spoke.  
  
John stiffened a little, though he didn't know why. It wasn't as if Sherlock was using an accusing tone, or speaking to him in anger. Sherlock sounded just like he always did, detached and a little curious; speaking fast like he didn't have time to think over his words too much before he blurted them. John's roaming hands stilled one at the base of Sherlock's neck, the other resting over his left shoulder blade. _Well that's a loaded question..._ John took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips; Sherlock was asking the golden question and he wasn't prepared. Usually Sherlock simply brushed feelings under the rug, which was what he had expected him to do at first. But something about the moment they had just shared had flayed both men wide open and left them questioning. How _did_ he feel about Sherlock? He knew he cared about the son of a bitch... even if he could be a real sod at times and took his things without asking. He also knew now that he was rather attracted to the man, for whatever reason he wasn't exactly sure. John was _not_ a homosexual; he could look at any other guy and dismiss them along with the next. But Sherlock...  
  
He wasn't sure if it was a feeling exactly, and he hadn't put a label on any of the tumultuous feelings he did have for Sherlock just yet, but he replied anyway, "I...don't want you to leave again, like you did." John murmured, unable to deny the temptation to sink his fingers into those plush curls again, gently twisting one wavy lock around his finger. "I am not...alone when you're with me." His voice lowered as he spoke, feeling exposed as he did so, turning his head to look at the back of the couch, his cheek pressing up against Sherlock's outstretched arm. "You give me...something to live for, actually." John's brows furrowed, his jaw tightening remembering the days gone past of simply living. Going to work, coming back to his flat; eating, sleeping, and doing it all over again. It had been dull and grey, no matter how he tried to fill it with case work from Lestrade or evenings spent with Mrs. Hudson. But there hadn't been any of Sherlock in his life then and that existence had been so desolate and stale he hated even thinking about it now.  
  
John knew he hadn't exactly answered Sherlock's question point blank, so he held his breath, and said his piece, "I'm just starting to find...how strongly I _do_ feel for you." He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at it a little, trying to find a way to explain himself without sounding cheesy or horribly embarrassed, "Though I don't fully understand it myself yet. I know that I'm," John swallowed and sighed it out, "attracted to you. Perhaps 'attached' is a better word." John let out another slow breath, telling himself it was stupid to be nervous. But his words were going to change things between them, irreversibly and without a doubt they could not return to being just friends and flat mates after all this. Not now. He didn't want to ruin whatever tenuous relationship he had with Sherlock already, and if Sherlock decided he couldn’t handle a deeper relationship with him, he would live with that...rather than live without his best friend.  
  
"What about you? How do you feel about all of this?" John was prepared to call Sherlock out on the carpet if he tried to use the excuse that he didn't 'feel' anything. He had felt the tightening of fingers in his sweater as they had kissed, had felt the tremble in his lips, seen the gentling of his eyes. Those little evidences had tugged at a place in John's heart, tugged at the iciness left behind from those three years apart. The instinct to hold onto something you had lost before and gotten back was a big part of the feelings John knew he was experiencing towards Sherlock, but that wasn't the most of it. He liked the man, cared for him, felt affection for him. But to bring himself to say those things sober was like pulling teeth for him. He could tell a woman he liked her, tell a woman he even loved her...but Sherlock so often times brushed such things off like a sheet from his shoulders. John didn't know if he could take opening himself wide open for Sherlock, only to have it thrown back in his face when he wasn't even fully sure of himself yet. It would crush him, so he kept his mouth shut...better to nurture these feelings in silence then let the man analyze them from every angle until there was nothing left of them. When he had his head aligned with his heart, he would tell Sherlock, someday...but not a minute before that time came. John was a risk taker, but not in matters of the heart. He wanted to be unswaying in these things; otherwise he'd be susceptible to Sherlock's assumptions.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock waited patiently, feeling the doctor tense under him. He asked John how he felt about him for a few reasons. One, he wanted to confirm what he thought John was feeling. Secondly, Sherlock wanted to see how his emotions reacted to John’s words. And lastly, there was not much to lose by asking. What was the worst that could happen? They had already kissed and slept in the same bed together.

The detective turned his head to the side, still keeping his face against John’s chest. Closing his eyes, he waited in silence and didn’t open them again until he felt John’s hands stop caressing him. Clear blue eyes peered across the room now while he waited, simply listening to John’s heartbeat while the good doctor got his words organized. It was a good thing he had removed all of Mycroft’s bugs from the flat before they’d had this conversation, no doubt Mycroft would have been having a field day the moment he could see his brother laying on another man’s chest and talking about _feelings_. He rolled his eyes, almost seeing his brother’s skin-crawlingly smug face…that face in his head was ruining the moment for him and he tried to focus on something else. Sherlock sighed softly, closing his eyes again and nuzzled against the doctor’s chest without thinking. He stopped midway; catching himself in the embarrassing act, but it was so warm. Sherlock’s body wasn’t as warm as John’s, which made this act similar to hugging a heating blanket. No doubt his cooler body was due to bad circulation, it ran in his family after all. His mind stopped finding distractions in side thoughts when John began to talk very slowly, dolling out each tidbit of information almost reluctantly.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look up at John as he spoke, it would likely make things more awkward if he did anyway. So, John didn’t want him to leave, he already knew that bit. In fact, his very jaw already knew that. Yet hearing the words coming from his friend’s mouth were confirming some of his theories. He relaxed more, leaning more heavily against John’s body as the doctor began to play with his hair again. Sherlock had to resist the temptation to close his eyes and fall asleep on his chest, for with John holding him in such a reassuring way, it was difficult not to. His icy blue eyes fluttered shut again, listening to John’s voice while he relaxed there. A smug grin crossed his face when John said he was attracted to him. But he didn’t have the time to revel in that statement, his eyes opening when John asked him about his own feelings in a cautious, serious tone.  
  
Unlike John, Sherlock had been expecting the other man to ask him the same question and Sherlock stretched against John’s body before very hesitantly slipping out of his arms and standing up. Immediately, his slender body yearned for the warmth of John’s and he had to make the conscious effort to ignore the longing. The sheet dropped off of his waist and fell onto the floor as he walked over to the window overlooking Baker Street. ”I don’t know, John...If it makes you feel any better, I do not hate you. I like your company better than most actually.” He wasn’t lying but he wasn’t exactly telling the truth either. Sherlock now vaguely knew how he felt towards John, though he hadn’t come to terms with those feelings just yet. Emotions were for the weak, feelings lead to mistakes and bad impulse decisions. It was how he had ended up pretending to be dead for three years, after all. Sherlock’s eyes gazed out the window and watched as people were passing by on the side walk down below.  
  
”You’re in luck then, I don’t plan on leaving. Not even with all these bugs Mycroft keeps putting in our flat. If you think you will be able to lose me that easily, you will find yourself very wrong. Though, I am surprised you are attracted to me. I always knew you were into guys though.” He lied, “You have dated so many women and not a one lasted even a year.” Sherlock turned around and winked at the doctor playfully.

Their moment was interrupted when he heard Mrs. Hudson walking up the stairs, knocking on the door before coming into their sitting room, “Woo hoo, sorry to intrude boys but you have a package Sherlock. The delivery man dropped it off a while ago, said it was some kind of emergency. Maybe it’s an important case. I was going to bring it up earlier but I had a cake in the oven, sorry dearie.” She smiled and placed it on the coffee table, rambling on in that sweet old way she had. She turned her kind smile on John before turning to walk back to their door, “It is so wonderful to have you back, Doctor. Now this place is so much quieter.” Mrs. Hudson laughed pleasantly before shutting the door behind her.  
  
The package was small, approximately twelve inches in length, five inches deep, and six inches in width. It was addressed to Sherlock with no return address. _Mycroft…_ Sherlock’s eyes fell on the package for a moment before ignoring its existence entirely, no doubt it was something he wouldn’t want anyway. Whatever Mycroft had sent, it was meant to tease his younger brother and Sherlock was not interested. Sherlock paced for a moment before snatching up his violin again and beginning to play a soft tune, hoping to distract John from his curious looks towards the package upon their sitting room table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell us what you think! =]


	9. Congratulations to the Aggrieved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysterious packages, awkward dinners, and failed experiments.

John flushed softly when he felt Sherlock nuzzle his chest slightly, continuing to play with his curls. Sherlock was so cold, probably because he had little to no fat on his body to keep him warm. John resolved to fix that soon, make him eat more maybe. As Sherlock stretched, John let his hands fall away from the other male so he had free reign over his movements. He caught the pause before Sherlock drew away and wondered if it was because he didn't want to...or because he was still thinking. Sighing, John picked up the sheet from his bed Sherlock just left lying about, wadding it up in his lap and crossing his arms over his chest as Sherlock moved away from him towards the window. "Well," John blinked, "At least you don't hate me like you do Anderson." He rolled his eyes. That was a step in the right direction at least.   
  
He wasn't expecting any declaration on Sherlock's part, and if he did make one, there was something horribly wrong with his friend. Sherlock was never the type to speak of feelings, whether they were his own or somebody else's. That was why his question had caught him so off guard. John blinked as Sherlock assured him he wasn't leaving, feeling something loosen in his chest a little more, and the constriction he hadn't realized was there when Sherlock had drawn away eased a little. He blanched when Sherlock addressed the issue of his attraction to him, about to rebuke Sherlock for his words. He wasn't gay! Those few times in the army were out of necessity and he had decided it wasn't for him back then, the male body simply wasn't attractive to him. At least...they hadn't been; nobody else was, just Sherlock. It always came down to that in his mind and it threw him for a loop every time. It was just Sherlock.   
  
A knock on the sitting room door interrupted the words that died on his lips, watching as Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room with a package, which she set on the coffee table next to Sherlock's laptop. He smiled back at her, but the expression was tight and awkward on his face. "It's good to be back...actually." John replied as she turned towards him at the door, closing it behind herself after an exchange of smiles. John's expression slowly faded, his eyes narrowing and sliding towards the package on the coffee table in confusion. What if Sherlock had ordered something from the morgue at St. Bart’s? That package could have thumbs in it... Or, judging by the frequency with which Sherlock's mobile buzzed, it could be something from his brother. Strangely, his phone was silent after that single text from Mycroft Holmes.   
  
"I'm not gay Sherlock, I don't look at other men and find them attractive, don't ask me why, I don't even know." He said, getting that off of his chest before he pointed at the wrapped parcel. "Are you going to open that?" He was curious, but he forced it away, figuring that if it was from Mycroft, Sherlock wasn't going to be opening it any time soon himself. In fact, it might just end up in the trash.   
  
Heaving a long sigh, John glanced at his watch, "Well, it's about lunch time, suppose I could whip something up." He muttered, really not feeling like sitting through a forced meal with Sherlock and begging him to eat something. Also, the silence after Mrs. Hudson's departure was becoming tense and John stood up to shake the feeling off, folding the sheet from his bed over his arm. "Or you could get cleaned up and we could see what the others are doing for lunch today." It was a Tuesday and likely everyone else was working, but Lestrade took lunches sometimes and met John at a cafe to give John his weekly fix on case facts. He had found himself craving stories about cases, gruesome ones sometimes too, since Sherlock's false death. "Or we could catch up with them for dinner and I can make us sandwiches." Putting his hands in his pockets, John stared at Sherlock's back, frowning at the thinness of it. "I think I'll get a load of laundry going downstairs first though..."   
  
Taking his sheet with him, John went upstairs to his bedroom to strip the bed. Sherlock had made a mess of it anyhow, he figured it could do with a washing. Gathering the sheets by his door, he dumped out the contents of his hamper into a pile on the floor and sorted the darks from the colors, the colors from the reds. Putting the darks, which was his biggest load, into his laundry basket---John set the thing against his hip and paused when he shook the pillows from their pillow cases to add to his pile of bed clothes. Beneath one of his pillows was Sherlock's scarf...he would need it if they went out to dinner tonight. Hesitantly, he placed it in his basket, telling himself it was stupid to want to hang onto it when it wasn't his. Sherlock would be missing it soon anyway.   
  
Moving downstairs, John went all the way down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. There was a closet tucked under the stair there that housed the washer and dryer. John started a load of wash and dumped the clothes in; saving the scarf so he could put some special detergent on the blood stain on the edge of one side. Setting it in the washer, he closed the lid and took the basket back up with him.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock smiled back at John while playing his violin. He dragged his bow down sharply, causing a horrible sound to break the tune he had been playing. “Whatever you say John, then why do you kiss me?” It was a rhetorical question that the both of them already knew the answer to. Sherlock pointed his bow at John before swinging it in the air before bringing it back down on his violin in a sharp wail.  “No.” He said quickly and bluntly. There was no way he was even touching that package from his bastard brother. Whatever was inside it was meant to embarrass and tease him in some way, no doubt. Perhaps there was another bugged device in there to, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes. He didn’t desire to open it but he would have to make sure there was no irritating device inside it or just shove it somewhere where it wouldn’t pick up their conversations. Most-likely the latter, it seemed easier.   
  
He turned his back to John and began to play another song. This one was quick and fast and he almost let out a sigh when John brought up lunch. Was it already that time of day already? Leave it to a doctor to make sure you were eating three times a day. He let out a soft chuckle for John hadn’t exactly asked him if he had wanted to eat and Sherlock wasn’t going to complain. He knew he must at some point for very time he thought of not eating, he kept seeing John running in front of him to block that bookshelf with his stronger, healthier body taking most of the blow. Not a word escaped his lips as John spoke and he played the violin as if he wasn’t even listening to his flat mate. Sherlock’s eyes closed, in his own world. It was obvious how things were going to play out; they would be having dinner out. John, no doubt, wanted to see Lestrade and for some reason this made Sherlock play louder. Jealousy?   
  
His hands moved faster over the instrument, keeping his expression completely relaxed. Slowly he walked in a small circle about the sitting room while playing, ignoring John as he left the room. A few moments after he left, he drew his bow through the last note with an annoyed flourish and those icy blue eyes of his opened once more to stare at the now empty room. He placed his violin back down on his desk; walking to the coffee table and snatching the package up off the coffee table. It wasn’t very heavy, possibly weighing about a stone or so. Sherlock shook the box, hearing the contents move. There was a liquid within it; he could hear it sloshing about. He could deduce a bottle of liquid and another smaller box…and something else. Scowling, he brought the package to his room and wrapped a few blankets around it. With that, he shoved it into the bottom of his drawer. If there was a bug in it, a least now the sounds it could pick up would be muted. Why didn’t he throw it out? Well…he was rather curious as to its contents, not that he would admit it to anybody, he’d just investigate it later when no one was about.   
  
Sherlock stretched, walking into the bathroom while stripping off his clothing. He still smelt like a mixture of sweat and drugs. In most circumstances, he didn’t care what he smelt like. However, now that John had kissed him, he had become rather self-conscience around the older man. He turned on the hot water and got into the shower, closing the curtain behind himself. The water rinsed off his sweat and cleaned the crusted speck of blood off his arm where he had injected the morphine the night before. Letting out a sigh, he washed his hair and his body and as he was finishing up, his finger brushed against the earlobe that John had licked so tenderly just twenty minutes and fifteen seconds ago. A soft blush stole across his sharp cheek bones again and curiously, Sherlock rubbed his ear trying to mimic the way John’s tongue had touched him to see if it were at all possible for him to replicate making the same sound as he had when John had done it. But there was nothing, not even the smallest of urges to vocalize any pleasure and he felt immensely idiotic and dropped his hand to his side again.   
  
Getting out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor, he wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom. Causally, as if he was actually fully dressed, he threw his body onto his chair in the sitting room by the fire place in nothing but his towel. Out of boredom, he flicked on the telly and went through the channels. “No…No….No…Stupid…Moronic…Pointless… Thoughtless…Boring…Boring…Boring…Boring…” Sherlock stopped on the advertisement channel. ”What the devil is a Snuggie?” His brow rose as he watched the saleswoman described it to the viewers.  It was supposed to be warm and convenient. _Like John,_ he thought to himself and a faint blush darkened his cheeks again as he realized where his thoughts had gotten to again. 

 

~ * ~

 

John was used to Sherlock's violin playing, he could even sleep through it if it wasn't too loud, but Sherlock's music filled the flat to the brim and John winced as he came back up the stairs to Sherlock dragging his bow mercilessly against the strings. He was surprised Sherlock didn't snap any of his bowstrings playing the way he was. Depositing his laundry basket back in his room, he threw the next load into it and set it on his bed. There was a decided draft when he went back downstairs, so John went to the fireplace to start a fire, putting the grate back in place when he had finished, the crackling and snapping over the logs inviting. He moved into the kitchen, starting a kettle of tea and thinking he'd make them something small to eat. When he turned from the fridge, the music had stopped in a flourish and Sherlock had picked up the package from the coffee table and stalked out of the room and down the hall.   
  
The tea didn't take long to brew and John sent a text off to Lestrade and Molly to see if they were free for dinner while he poured a mug of his favorite tea. He had just set his mobile down and moved out into the living room with his cup when he saw a shirt land in the hallway. Sighing, John moved out to pick it up just as the bathroom door shut. He tossed the discarded article of clothing into Sherlock's own hamper, which was overflowing; it would seem the cleaning crew had drawn the line at doing laundry. He would either have to bully Sherlock into doing his own laundry soon, or do it for him when the stupid man ran out of pants. But knowing Sherlock, he'd just rebel and not wear any pants.   
  
Sitting down on the couch with his cuppa, John sipped at it and closed his eyes, still feeling tired from the night before. He let his head lean back against the back of the sofa, hearing a pair of bare feet come padding into the sitting room. He looked up and nearly spilled his tea on himself. Sherlock was just in a towel, his hair all wet from his shower, sitting in his chair facing the telly. John cleared his throat and set his mug down, frowning into it. "Why don't...we get dressed for dinner, hm?" He stood up, only to glance up at the channel Sherlock had paused the telly on. "A Snuggie?" John didn't really know what that was either as he approached the T.V., bracing his hands on the back of Sherlock's chair and tipping his head down to look at the screen. "Looks like an over-sized blanket with sleeves..." A woman was acting all surprised because she could wear her leopard print Snuggie and still work on her laptop at the same time. John rolled his eyes, "Another rubbish invention." He sighed, moving into the kitchen and coming back with a dish towel, dropping it onto Sherlock's wet head. "At least cover your head, you're going to get yourself sick. You're thinner than a twig." John heard his mobile vibrate on the kitchen table and went to retrieve it. Lestrade was checking in and suggested they hit up Angelo's. John glanced at Sherlock in the sitting room, watching him rail over the channel he was watching. Frowning, he typed back:

  
  
_To: Lestrade_  
From: John   
Message: Sounds good, I guess. Trouble is getting Sherlock out of the flat; he's kipped up in his chair watching crap telly.

  
  
He got a reply within a few moments, getting his laptop off the desk to check his online bank account to make sure he had some money in there to cover dinner.

  
  
_To: John_  
From: Lestrade   
Message: Haha, your fault there. You could've talked him out of buying the telly. Molly coming? 

  
  
John frowned. Lestrade had been interested in Molly since he'd seen her in that killer dress at Christmas three years ago. But nothing had come of it, considering Lestrade was still married, though he felt a divorce was in the works. They were trying though, and he knew Lestrade had a vacation time set up a few months from now; an attempt to visit a couple’s therapy retreat in France. John opened a new text:

  
  
_To: Molly_  
From: John   
Message: Kind of need a head count, you're welcome to come Molly. 

  
  
Setting his phone down on the sofa beside himself, John spent some time on his computer until it was about four, "Should we invite Mrs. Hudson?" John closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table, standing up to stretch and slide his phone into his pocket. "You've been sitting there in that towel for over three hours Sherlock, why aren't you dressed?" John took his coat from the back of his chair by the fireplace and shrugged it on. "We've got to go in ten minutes." He looked him over begrudgingly, his lips still pursing when he saw each and every one of Sherlock's ribs protruding from his torso. His skin was a milky pale color, flushed in spots where he would brace his arm on the chair or prop his chin up with his hand. John turned away, going downstairs to switch his laundry out again, knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door to invite her, but she most have gone out for her flat was silent.   
  
Bringing the laundry up to his room, John found Sherlock's scarf, still warm from the dryer, and was pleased that the stain had come out. He brought it downstairs and instead of handing it to the man; he simply placed it over his coat which sat on a rack down by the front door. He called up to Sherlock from the main floor, "Sherlock, I'm leaving!" He said, "Whether you're with me or not."

 

~ * ~

 

A frown crossed Sherlock’s lips as John insulted the blanket with sleeves. For some odd reason, the strange blanket coat interested him. If he had that, it would be similar to hugging John all day long. Plus, he was never really fully dressed anyway; the blanket coat could come in handy. “Shut up, John. I am concentrating. Go talk to Lestrade and complain about your relationships.” He didn’t look up at his friend, his eyes memorizing the website that was on the channel before flipping to the next. He would most likely get one of those Snuggie things later. He flicked through the news, the weather, a horror movie, and a few reality channels but nothing quite caught his eye. He paused on the horror movie for a moment but quickly changed it. They had endured enough horror to last them each two life times this week.   
  
His eyes rose when John dropped a tea towel onto his wet hair, water dripping from his hair and all the way down his back, his dark curls plastered to the side of his face and the back of neck. Sherlock didn’t touch it, leaving the towel draped on his head with his eyes still glued to the telly. “Are you insulting my weight? John, I am _very_ hurt. I _don’t_ get sick. People make me sick.” He spoke slowly, his eyes following the pictures on the screen.   
“How do people watch this stupidity all day long? Is it a game? Let’s all sit in front of the telly and lower our I.Q.s, how moronic.” He mumbled but continued to flip through the channels anyhow.   
  
In the corner of his eye he watched John leave the room to go check his mobile. _Lestrade_. A sting of jealousy hit him. Oh, yes, he was positive it was jealousy now. Why was he so jealous of Lestrade? That was something Sherlock wasn’t about to admit to himself and so he left on some moronic reality show while he watched John from the corner of his eye. ”Open your eyes! He is a prick who rapes woman! Why in bloody hell are you dating him?! Look at his hands! His knuckles are covered in calluses! Fine, get raped!” He yelled at the telly, flicking to the next channel, still watching John in the corner of his eye. He grinned when John frowned. Lestrade had kept in touch with John for the last three years while he had been gone and while his relationship with John shattered, Lestrade grew closer to the doctor. It was one of the reasons why his envy grew every time he saw them together. However, when John turned and came back into the sitting room, Sherlock’s eyes shot back to the telly as if they had never left it. For the next hour or so, Sherlock sat in his chair, eventually turning and throwing his legs over the arm of it and resting his head on the other. His gaze would occasionally shift towards John in between changes of the channels, but he never said anything directly to John, just simply yelled at the screen for people’s incompetence. Sometime during these moments, Sherlock even grabbed the tea towel off his head and chucked it at the screen in his frustration.   
  
After yelling at the telly he was a tad calmer than he had been before and his eyes shifted over to John as the doctor shut his laptop. “Mrs. Hudson left thirty minutes ago for a date with the lawyer who smells of urine.” He mumbled, having heard Mrs. Hudson leave a bit before. “Why do I need cloths? I am going in a towel.” He said sarcastically, rubbing his temples. “I am sure _Molly and Lestrade_ would love that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his head fall back listlessly over the arm of his chair. He didn’t want to be with either of those two: Lestrade was full of angst and Molly was a mess. Why couldn’t he and John just go out for dinner? Perhaps John was still upset with him…  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment as if he had lost interest in the very world entirely. Only when John moved to go downstairs did he get up. Lestrade was going to be there and the detective did not want John to be going to dinner with the inspector alone, who knows what they could get up to after all. As he walked into to his bedroom, the towel dropped from his waist and he left it there on the floor. He went through his closet, pulling out a pair of black pants and trousers and slipping them on. He put on some socks and slipped into his shoes before looking through his collection of button down shirts for something decent and unwrinkled to wear. He needed his laundry to be done but that was something for John to do tomorrow. Sherlock eventually pulled out a deep maroon, long sleeved button down shirt that was sewn in a silken fabric. He pulled it on, the soft material caressing his skin. Tucking it into his trousers he went back into the sitting room, brushing back his now dry curly hair with one hand. He pocketed his mobile and began making his way down the stairs to meet John in the foyer of their flat.  
  
”Calm down. You wouldn’t leave without me even if you had wanted to.” Sherlock grabbed his coat from the rack and slipped it on. He reached forward, taking down his _warm_ scarf from the rack and confirming that yes, John had just washed it. A tiny smile crossed his face and for a spilt second it softened his sharp gaze before it disappeared again entirely as he took to wrapping the scarf around his neck. “Angelo’s? Is anyone other than Lestrade coming?” He asked in his usual tone of disinterest, not caring too much either way; he just wanted to hear John’s voice speak again. They left 221B and he waved a passing cabbie down after a bit of a wait and it stopped along the curb. Quickly he climbed into the back seat, leaving the door open for John to climb in behind him. Leaning back into the seat, he stayed quiet while resting his head against the head rest in the back of the cab. It only took a few minutes until they arrived at their usual restaurant because traffic wasn’t too bad on Tuesday nights, everybody too depressed to go out after their bad Mondays. Sherlock paid the driver for once and got out of the car. Lestrade and Molly were waiting outside already and both of them were dressed up for something other than going to dinner with friends. Was Lestrade trying to cheat on his wife too?

 

~ * ~

 

John was glad they were leaving the flat now, because it would mean Sherlock was going to have to turn off the telly. He regretted getting Sherlock started in on crap telly, but Sherlock had bought the thing so it wasn't exactly his choice to get rid of it. Not unless he did something really bad with it...like make it into an explosive or some complete bollucks like that.   
  
He looked up when Sherlock came down the stairs from their flat, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed at the sight of his flat mate. Sherlock looked good in dark colors, and that maroon shirt had been one of his favorites from three years ago. It was slimming, soft, and had a very light, barely noticeable design throughout the fabric. Coupled with a pair of Sherlock's ever present black slacks and Italian tailored shoes, Sherlock cut more of a figure than he usually did. He also didn't look so unbearably thin in that outfit and it made John a little less tense knowing that a brush from a stranger or an accidental bump wouldn't topple his friend like match sticks. Turning, John checked himself in the mirror of the bureau they hung their coats on, feeling a little self-conscious as Sherlock shrugged his wool coat on and turned up that damn collar, looking all _cool_.   
  
John was average and that was how he described himself. There were plenty of blonde haired blokes with blue eyes and a stacked build. His shoulders were wide and strong; sometimes a difficult thing to find shirts that fit him well enough in fact. He was short, but he wasn't stocky... Compared to Sherlock, he was rather bland looking. Shaking himself out of his displeasure, he walked out of their flat behind Sherlock and closed the door by the knocker in front. He locked it and jogged across the walk to slide into the cab next to Sherlock. "Yeah, Molly is." He replied, ignoring the expression _that_ elicited from Sherlock. When they arrived at Angelo's, John held the door open for Sherlock after he paid the cabbie and they turned to face Lestrade and Molly who were waiting outside in the cold.   
  
"You could've gone inside and put our names in instead of waiting out in the cold." He smiled, glancing at Sherlock with raised brows as their group of four filed in, "Let’s not make a scene tonight, hm?" He murmured; his voice lowered for Sherlock's ears only. "Were you guys some place nice earlier?" John looked at Molly, "You look very nice." He complimented her innocently enough; still feeling appreciative towards her for helping Sherlock escape Moriarty's choke hold...though he had wished she would have told him. But she had avoided him a lot during those three years, probably because she wanted to tell him but had made a promise to the Holmes brothers and one knew that when you dealt with the Holmes, you kept secrets.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock smiled softly as John told him not to make a scene, like he had some control over that. Things just happened to occur around him, as if drama and conflict were drawn to him like a magnet. Sherlock ignored Molly’s bashful hello as he caught her gaze when they entered the restaurant. He gave her an emotionless smile before looking up. He did appreciate what she had done for him back then for she had risked her job and possibly even jail time, though if something had happened to her, Sherlock didn’t doubt that Mycroft would have stopped it if he had so desired. A woman dressed in formal black and white clothing came up to them, asking if she could take their coats. Sherlock took off his wool coat and his scarf, stuffing it in his coat pocket so it wouldn’t be mistaken as he handed both over to her care. As he turned away, he could hear someone approaching him, the tread heavy and stalky, no doubt Angelo himself.

  
“Heyyyy!! Sherlock!” It was Angelo of course, coming at him with open arms. He gripped Sherlock’s smaller body and brought him into a big hug. “I thought you were dead! I see I have my best customer back! Tell me if you need anything, anything at all! Tonight, you and your friends’ dinners are on me.” He released Sherlock back to the ground. Angelo was dressed nicely, working the front tonight as it appeared. He smiled and patted John’s back, “Look at this! You two look good together as always. A double date, huh? Well, I have your favorite seat in the house, Sherlock!” The large man laughed, his voice was happy and very cheerful.

Sherlock smiled at the man, “Thank you but there is no need. We will pa-”

Angelo cut Sherlock off, slapping his hand against Sherlock’s back hard as he led them over to a booth against the window. It was the same booth that Sherlock and John ha sat in together the first time they had dined here all those years ago. “No, no, no. I insist! When I found out you weren’t dead, I have been waiting to see you. And now look! Here you are alive and…skinny!” His laugh thundered through the room, “You need some more meat on those bones. Enjoy!” The chubby man walked away from the table, shaking his head and grinning from ear to ear.   
  
Well at least he had gotten them all a free dinner. He waited until John slid into the booth first before taking a seat at the very end. Across from him was Molly and next to John was Lestrade. He decided he didn’t like the way the seating arrangements had turned out but what the bloody hell could he do about it now. Sherlock took a sip of the water in front of him as the female waitress came over and introduced herself as Elaina, Elaina was a chain smoker from what he could see and anxious about money problems if her bitten nails and easy regard for the man dressed most expensively at the table were anything to go by. She gave them the menus and asked him what he wanted to drink first and Sherlock kept to his water for now. After last night’s episode with the morphine, he wasn’t going to drink anything stiffer than London tap water.   
  
When the woman left to get the rest of their drinks, Molly cleared her throat nervously. “S-so…Sherlock where have you been?” She asked; trying to start up a conversation with him.

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes at her obvious choice of topic, “Prancing through the fields of death and eating ice-cream while watching telly.” He lied, taking another sip of the water while bringing up his menu to cut off the stare she was training on him.

“O-oh…”She stammered with a shy little laugh. Sherlock remained quiet while everyone looked over their menus, and when the waitress came back and gave them their drink, pausing to take their orders, Sherlock ordered a small bowl of pasta with sauce, knowing John would give him the death stare if he didn’t eat something.

 

~ * ~

 

John flushed up and stared hard at the ceiling as Angelo, the owner of the restaurant greeted them much in the same way as he had before that very first dinner out with Sherlock. They were even seated at the same table as they had been that first night. John heaved a long sigh, staring straight at his feet the whole time. It wouldn't do any good to rebuke the truth now would it...even if they weren't exactly a couple, they had still...made out on the sofa like a pair of wet teenagers. John forced those memories from his head now; they were in public for Chrissake. Lestrade was enjoying this far too much and said with a grin as they all slid into their booth:  
  
"Don't want to separate the couple now do we? I'll sit over here next to Molly." He grinned over the table at John, who cast him a withering look. Molly simply blushed profusely.   
  
"Heineken for me, please." John said without looking through his menu. If he was going to get through this dinner, he was going to have a beer or two, loosen up a little. He felt the weight and stress of their last case together still loitering over his shoulders and he still hadn't fully relaxed from it, now that they were safe and back in London. He glanced at Sherlock who was looking at the menu rather stonily, probably simply using it as a divider so he wouldn't have to look at anyone else at the table. John lifted his own menu for a moment to cast his friend 'the look'. The good doctor had a look when Sherlock was becoming a little too petulant, "She helped save your hide, and the least you could do is tolerate her with the least amount of sarcasm and acid." He dropped his menu back to the table just as the waitress brought their drinks.   
  
"Hey, no secret conversations, you love birds." Lestrade teased his laughing eyes on John since Sherlock was just a menu face.   
  
John shook his head and grit his teeth, "Want a bruised shin Greg, you're headin' that way." He looked up and flashed a very plastic smile at the waitress who looked like she'd stepped into a very awkward moment. "Meat lovers special for me, please." If he was going to drink, he was going to eat something heavy to keep him sober.   
  
He twisted the top off his beer in one strong twist, the seal breaking with a _click_ , the muscles in his arm bunching at the mindless action beneath the sleeve of his striped sweater. Leaning back into the booth, he took a swig off the beer and let it slide back onto the table, grunting at the bitterness of the beer under his breath. Lestrade was drinking dark ale in a glass and raised it towards him in cheers, clicking his glass against Molly's glass of red wine.   
  
"So I heard you two had another case earlier this week, out in Ireland if Mrs. Hudson's right." Lestrade folded his hands on the edge of the table, looking like he was settling in for a good story.   
  
John visibly tensed where he sat, casting a side-long glance at Sherlock, his brows furrowing deeply. He shut himself up with another sip of his beer.   
  
"Or was that just code for a honeymoon." Lestrade teased and John finally snapped, the Detective Inspector hitting a little too close to a sensitive mark.   
  
"It was a case in Dunquin, turned out to be a sham, some blinkered git wanting attention from the newly returned internet detective." John glared at Lestrade, "Enough with the comments, we get enough of them from total strangers. Bad enough we go home together every night. People talk." John sighed, not really regretting that he lived with Sherlock, simply wishing they weren't such public figureheads in London that their every move was rather fresh information to a hungry fan-based public.   
  
Lestrade held a hand up and nodded once, taking the hint. "Right, right...so the case was a bust?" He glanced at Sherlock. "He must be driving you nuts by now then, huh? No good cases turning up Sherlock? It's been pretty peaceful at the yard as of late."   
  
Molly nodded, putting in her two cents worth with a small, nervous quip, "And at the morgue...nobody dying these days." She whispered a soft, uneasy laugh and looked over at John, twirling the stem of her wine glass in her fingers against the table. John gave her a sympathetic half smile for her efforts.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock’s icy eyes caught sight of John giving him a very familiar look. It was that expression John gave him whenever he did something in public that he didn’t personally approve of. He rolled his eyes as he whispered to him with his menu up. Sherlock was naturally anti-social and the only reason he was here was because John had asked him to come along. Fine; if John wanted friendly, he would get it. Sherlock dropped his menu on the table and stared at Molly with his cold eyes. He put on a very fake pleasant smile. “Molly, what have you been doing while I have been away? You are so good at your work, cutting up the cadavers and all. Next time you get a limb or an arm, send it to me. I am getting bored in the flat and some blood here and there would make everything better.” He smiled disturbingly, wanting to make Lestrade lose his appetite if it were at all possible.   
  
Molly on the other hand blushed up profusely, seeming a little taken back as if she hadn’t expected him to act in such a way. “N-nothing too exciting. It’s not like I have been to Ireland.” She forced an awkward laugh, trying to cover her blush with her hand. “Th-there was a murder five months after you left? The corpse was covered in these warts and their feet were cut off. Very unpleasant but it reminded me of you.” It was her attempt at flirting and Sherlock smiled at this very strange woman; catching a glint of Lestrade in the corner of his eye. He was disturbed too but almost seemed rather…jealous? Lestrade was jealous? Sherlock leaned back in his booth; the inspector had a thing for Molly it would seem. He grinned at Lestrade knowingly.   
  
”That sounds _wonderful_! I am sure you had enough on your plate to keep your mind occupied while I was gone.” Sherlock glanced over at John, with a _’this is why I don’t talk to people’_ expression. He turned back to Lestrade, his expression changing as he took his eyes off of John. ”Oh god yes. Then again, I do have my ways to keep occupied…Did you enjoy your scavenger hunt in my room?” He asked, the last question delivered with an almost snappish flash of his eyes.

  
The waitress returned with some bread and butter and assured them, “Your food will be ready soon.” She smiled and quickly walked away, having caught a few excerpts of their conversation thus far.   
  
Lestrade took a piece of bread and spread some butter on it before biting into it with an annoyed tug of his teeth, “Yes, though I wasn’t able to find what I was looking for. It’s not every day we do a drugs bust. It’s been a very long time since I’ve had to do one for 221B. We couldn’t find anything though. It was as if everything had magically disappeared.” He cast Sherlock a bland look.  
  
Sherlock smiled dangerously back at him, using a piece of buttered bread to point at the inspector, “Oh? I wonder why you couldn’t find anything. It seems like your skills have diminished since I’ve been away. Believing in magic again, are we? That is just so pointless Lestrade, I thought I cured you of that notion years ago when I first helped the Yard. You never hear an officer say something like that. I bet there just weren’t any drugs there in the first place.” Sherlock sniffed dismissively and dropped the piece of untouched bread onto his small plate, stabbing idly at it with the prongs of his fork. ”How is your relationship with your wife going, by the way? It seems as if your wife is ordering a divorce soon and you’re starting to find interest in other woman. A bit soon, but who am I to judge a ‘free man’?” His smile was full of false friendliness while his words bit like shark’s teeth. The waitress seemed to think this moment of tension was a good time to intervene with food and brought a serving tray to their table on a stand and started passing their dishes about their table.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock was on a roll that not even a steam train could stop and the more his friend opened his mouth, the larger swigs John took of his beer until it was gone and he had to order another when the waitress brought the bread to their table. John shook his head at Molly, a kind of silent apology in his eyes. He folded his arms across his chest, one hand holding his beer, taking regular swigs of it as Sherlock shot off insult after creepy, veiled insult...   
  
Finally, John glared at Sherlock. If they were anything more than friends, he would have shut his friend up by just grabbing him by the balls. Someone had to at some time; it was probably the only way to get that bullish look out of Sherlock's eyes. He enjoyed the mental image of a straight backed Sherlock controlled by a hand round his nut sac. He could be a real sod... a real, insufferable sod.   
  
"Of course there weren't any drugs there Sherlock, because they're in the second panel from the left over the sink in the pharmacy bathroom down the street from our flat." John took another drink of his beer and looked pointedly at Lestrade. "There you have your drugs." He pushed the half empty bottle of beer back onto the table and straightened up, "Ah thank God, dinner's here." He said under his breath and reached out to help the waitress pass the heavy plates around the table, unrolling his silverware from his napkin and setting it over his knee. He picked up his fork and then looked at Sherlock. "Bad timing." He murmured, narrowing his eyes at his friend. John could play Sherlock's game too... "Oh, and...Another beer please, would be nice?" John asked the waitress before she left.   
  
Lestrade glanced at him, looking a little concerned, for the count of nearly empty bottles around John was two, and a third was on its way. John smiled back, tightly, and tucked into his spaghetti and meatballs, using a spoon to bank his fork off of to spin the pasta round so he could eat it with as little mess as possible.   
  
John took the liberty of steering the conversation away from Lestrade and his wife, since both Molly and he had flushed profusely and Lestrade had looked about ready to reach across the table and wring the front of Sherlock's collar. "Ireland's really cold, much colder than here this time of year." He spoke towards Molly but glanced at Lestrade. "Dunquin's on the edge of this little peninsula, real windy." He grimaced, "Made me miss the London smog just a little." John could hold his own over a good few beers, had drank his share in his college days, and had drunk a good few cocky privates under the table in Afghanistan. Three beers weren't going to tuck him under for the evening, but three beers weren’t going to be his limit tonight, he feared.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock shot a glare towards John as the doctor spat out the location of Sherlock’s last drug stash he had hid before they had left for Ireland. If Sherlock had no control over himself he would have snapped at John and left immediately to remove the stash before any officers could be on site to uncover it. But he was giving it up for John, something he continuously had to remind himself of every day. He must have told John the location last night when he had been mostly mentally gone after the effects of the morphine. Was there anything else he had told John and not remembered in the morning? However, if John wanted to be a prick about it, there would be consequences. His sharp blue eyes turned on John as if they could cut right through his skin, “Fine, two can play this game.”   
  
He didn’t smile just stared daggers at John while he talked about Ireland with Molly. He was seriously thinking about getting a new stash and starting it up again, or at least just smoking again maybe. Smoking would work well enough, John’s inner doctor would rail against the damage he’d be doing to his lungs. A couple walked past their table and Sherlock’s gaze followed them. He couldn’t believe he had started to feel that way towards John just hours ago. He had kissed him and he had started to feel-… and yet John had told Lestrade about his stash and he really shouldn’t have. He didn’t want Lestrade to go around gloating that he had gotten his last stash fair and square. It irritated Sherlock down to his core that John had just given Lestrade the location of the drugs as if it were nothing. Sighing, the waitress came toward the table with a beer and suddenly Sherlock stood up, “John, enjoy your date with the inspector…Please! Can I get everyone’s attention! I have a special announcement! I would like to congratulate the new couple!” He grabbed the beer from the waitress, muttering a clipped thanks to her. He raised the beer and got the attention of the other couples and groups in the room. Sherlock grinned widely and pointed to Lestrade and John. ”Everyone! These are two very good friends of mine. They’ve just recently been engaged! Please, let us toast to their good health and long sex life.” He smiled and glanced back at their booth as the people in the restaurant clapped and cheered, drinking from their glasses and raising them in toast. Sherlock took a swing of John’s beer, turning back to the odd three. He clapped awkwardly, since he was holding on to the beer bottle in one of his hands.   
  
With that Sherlock turned and walked to the bar at the far end of the restaurant, far away from their table. He took a seat on one of the bar stools, still holding John’s beer hostage in his hand. Sherlock didn’t like beer; the oxidation made him burp. Stronger drinks like whiskey or scotch were more of his taste. He glanced back at their booth, watching as a few people came up to the table to congratulate them. He smiled and winked at John and Lestrade, who were both red faced in their embarrassed rage. Oh yes, John would regret giving Lestrade that information now. The bartender smiled at him as he held onto his beer. Slowly his attention began withdrawing to the man sitting on the far end of the bar. He was a taller man, about Sherlock’s age. He had blonde hair…similar to John’s actually, though not as vibrant from the years spent under the Afghan sun. Sherlock’s eyes met with the dark brown eyes that belonged to the stranger at the bar, a slow and charismatic smile growing on the other man’s face as he raised his glass of rum in a toast of his own before taking a swig from it.   
  
He was rather attractive if Sherlock ever thought of people in that way and it certainly took some strain to make his brain even function on that level. The rum-swiller was cleanly shaved and dressed nicely in a pair of jeans and a blazer with a black shirt underneath; probably in sales of some kind. Sherlock tried to drink more of John’s beer but almost gaged on the taste and he had to set it back on the bar before he dropped it in his disgust. The blonde laughed softly and talked to the bartender for a moment. Sherlock eyed the man closely while the bartender crossed behind the bar over to Sherlock and gave him a glass with straight up whiskey in it. The blonde had bought him a drink it would seem. So, the blond was attractive and _definitely_ gay. Sherlock smiled at him, sipping at the dark whiskey while he moved suavely off of his chair and approached the blonde. Tonight, all he wanted to do was piss off John after what he’d told Lestrade. So why not break all of his rules?

  
Sherlock came up to the man, holding his glass up in a non-verbal form of acknowledgement, “Thank you, beer doesn’t work for me.” A plan was developing in the back of his mind and he remembered John had told him not to kiss anyone in the way he had taught him. _Oh_ , was he going to break that rule tonight. That wasn’t the only reason he was approaching this attractive blonde however, for when did Sherlock ever have one reason and one reason only. It was going to be a form of an experiment. The way John had kissed him had always made him feel like something was tugging at his heart. If he could get this feeling from kissing another guy, then he was just gay and not necessarily hung up on John. Sherlock didn’t care if he was a homosexual, better to learn late than never. To him, identifying your sexuality was pointless if you were never going to exploit it. Not when Sherlock never desired to have sex with anyone. So Sherlock sat down on the stool next to the blonde salesman and they began to chat, and chatting turned to flirting, and then flirting turned into light touches to the hand or shoulder. Fortunately, Sherlock had watched enough crap telly to understand how to do this properly and although he didn’t much like the touching, he was going to see this experiment through and piss John off all at the same time; two birds, one stone.

The name of the blonde, he found out, was Jason and he was from France as well as openly gay… and now he was running his hand along Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock felt nothing but a slight revulsion from that single touch and he took another sip of the whiskey, finishing it in fact while hoping it’d dull some of his distaste for the man’s blatant come-ons. Jason was coming on rather strong and Sherlock estimated it had probably been a while since this guy had taken anybody home and while he contemplated this, Jason’s other hand was traveling up Sherlock’s thigh and gently stroking it through the fabric of his trousers. But still, Sherlock felt nothing but a bland annoyance. This experiment needed a closing act and soon because Sherlock was growing bored with the entire ordeal.  
  
So, when the time was right, Sherlock leaned into Jason, tilting his head to the side and placing a soft kiss on the other male’s lips. Jason instantly pulled Sherlock closer and almost into his very lap! His bitter tasting tongue shot into the detective’s mouth, writhing over Sherlock’s own flailing appendage as he tried to regain the upper hand. He at first wrapped his arms around Jason’s neck, leaning into the kiss curiously; feeling it out as he had with John. But again, there was nothing constricting the hardness of his heart. He was only blushing because it had felt weird to him, having this stranger nearly shove his tongue down his throat. And yet there was no fluttering in his stomach as there had been with John. There was no tightness in his chest, no acceleration of his heart, and no yearning in his hands to touch and explore what he could reach. Sherlock went to break the kiss but Jason slid Sherlock completely off of his lap and immediately pushed him up against the wall beside the end of the bar. His hands were going to Sherlock’s arse, sliding into the back of his trousers and firmly gripping onto the brunette’s cheeks through his briefs. The blush on Sherlock’s pale face darkened from the embarrassment of it all but he was still locked in the needy, desperate, one-sided kiss with the other man. At this point, Sherlock tried to push the blonde off of him but he hadn’t recovered much from Ireland and was still too weak to manage something so brutish. Jason managed to force one of his legs between Sherlock’s, pressing his thigh against the detective’s crotch and there was a slight moment of panic rising within Sherlock’s as the event seemed to stretch on endlessly. Fortunately, the bartender broke it up, leaving Sherlock blushing as red as a tomato against the wall, panting and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

 

~ * ~

 

John knew Sherlock could be downright vindictive, but he hadn't counted on it taking such an immature turn. After all, Sherlock was quitting the drugs and it would be ridiculous to keep them a secret when he was going to go round tomorrow and collect them anyway. He supposed it was a damn ego thing with Sherlock, and he had guessed correctly when Sherlock tried to fry his brain from his head with his monstrous gaze alone. He ignored him easily enough, having received worse dagger stares in the past. If Sherlock was going to be childish, John was just going to ignore him the rest of the evening. So what if they had a row, it wasn't the first one and it wouldn't be the last.   
  
But what John didn't count on was the complete inappropriate turn Sherlock would take with things. He glanced over when Sherlock got up from the booth, frowning at his words and getting half way up out of the booth’s bench seat to forestall Sherlock's words, but it was too late. The brunette's voice boomed through the restaurant and every head turned. John sunk back into the bench seat and looked at Lestrade with a very incensed expression. John dropped his face into one hand and Molly flushed fuchsia. Lestrade just looked surprised and disgusted, looking at Molly with the same expression, one hand open and beseeching on the table top.   
  
As people jeered and toasted, John wouldn't look at Sherlock, his eyes glaring into the tabletop, that same fierce soldier stare. He had no beer now, and it walked off with Sherlock. A few bolder people of the restaurant approached the table, starting to offer congratulations and John looked up with an eerie smile, his eyes dark, “Kindly... _sod off_." He said to them, cutting off that venue at the stump.

Lestrade muttered under his breath around the lip of his brew, "Next time, I'm throwing the book at 'im..."   
  
"No use, he's got a brother babysitter on his side." John grunted, catching the attention of the waitress who went buy. “Two more beers please." She smiled and he saw what she was about to say, but he cut her off. “Just the beers, _thanks_." He stared at her darkly until she moved off, scrambling to get away from the table.   
  
"Ah, thanks mate." Lestrade sighed.   
  
"What're you talking about?" John frowned, "Those beers are for me."   
  
"'Ey, is that any way to treat your new husband-to-be?" Lestrade chuckled, shaking his head, annoyed but able to make light of it since it wasn't true.   
  
John glowered at him, "Who says you're the groom...you're obviously the bride." He shot down another wave of congratulations when two young women tried to approach. If he had a PR agent, he was sure they'd be shitting bricks for how rude he was being. The beers came and John hardly ate his meal, drinking each one in short time, knowing that if he wanted to go home and have Sherlock still be alive by morning, he was going to have to be more than a little buzzed, he’d have to be on his way to flat out pissed. He ordered a fifth, which came quickly, his spaghetti mostly untouched. Lestrade blinked at him.   
  
"Maybe you should slow down John..." Molly chimed in out of worry, telling him that it wasn't so bad, that he'd never see most of these customers again. But that wasn't the point...   
  
"Hey, hey...looks like your best man found himself a date for the wedding." Lestrade grumbled; shuffling about for his mobile, thinking he'd better have it out if there was going to be a chance for blackmail any time soon. Any way you could control Sherlock even minutely was a step up for any man of the Yard.   
  
John frowned, "What?" He was more than buzzed by now, his vision a little wonky and his state of thinking hampered as he stared at the swirls and loops of his meal sitting cold in the dish before him. He hadn't really figured where Sherlock had gone after his obscene misuse of the tradition of toasting, and he told himself he didn't care. Lestrade was in the booth that was facing the length of the restaurant and he could see the bar from where he sat, he motioned towards it now with a nod, frowning at what was starting to become apparent.   
  
"They should get a damn room..." Lestrade grimaced. Molly was blushing up a storm, a hand over her mouth, leaning into Lestrade so she could see.   
  
John frowned, slowly turning in his booth to look, his arm along the back of the booth. There was Sherlock, chatting up some blonde guy who was introducing some heavy petting. Something in John shifted and he winced, but turned the expression into a scowl. "What is wrong with him tonight...?"   
  
Lestrade shrugged a grin on his face, "I don't know, but this part is brilliant." He pulled up his mobile and started filming as Sherlock made a fool of himself with this stranger, letting him hang all over him. John tensed when the guy tugged Sherlock off of his stool, about to turn away in disgust when he saw it. They were kissing...and John was torn.   
  
He could get up, make a scene, tear the two apart and drag Sherlock out of the restaurant like some obviously jealous lover and embarrass himself in front of their friends. Or he could just walk away... but he'd stay to make sure Sherlock was okay, even if it turned his stomach.   
  
John rose up from the table, a little unsteady on his footing. He dropped a few bills down on the table, "Tell Angelo...that's for my copious...drinkin'." He muttered; jaw clenched tightly shut around the words. When he looked over at the bar again, Sherlock was flushing up like some virgin maiden and John locked eyes with him from across the room. Three things translated in John's hazy gaze, his blue eyes sharpening into focus in that one moment. _Hurt. Betrayal. Anger._ John turned away, successfully shutting Sherlock out, marching towards the restaurant doors with a single-minded determination. To get home before Sherlock...   
  
Outside, the air was freezing and made his lungs ache and he was glad for it, otherwise he might make a scene with the restaurant bins. But it was too cold for that. His breath gusted in the night air in front of him as he tucked his hands into his armpits, having forgotten his coat on the rack in his haste to be free of the place. He kept seeing Sherlock plastered to that guy and he wanted to punch the fucker all over again. Dislocate that jaw again...but then he wouldn't be able to eat for a week without a tube.   
  
He knew he couldn't trust Sherlock with anything to do with his feelings towards him. The stupid man would just turn them against him; use his emotions to drive him insane with jealousy and anger and hurt. John was breathing hard but he hadn't done anything to be short of breath, but he still felt like he'd been punched in the gut. A cab finally came along and John hailed it, stumbling a step off of the curb as the motion threw him a little off balance, his equilibrium askew. If he could make it back to the flat without seeing Sherlock, without having to face him until morning...he could get these horrible, sickening feelings bottled up and be alright by morning. He just needed to flush it all, everything he had hoped he'd seen in the future with Sherlock he would forget. It was stupid to think the detective could nurture anything but his childish tendencies and his massive intellect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, we're back on schedule! Sorry this one is a little shorter, but it's all I could get done in the time I had this week after our last update. Sorry for the sudden angst, but hopefully the arguments were amusing (sort of like a married couple in my opinion). Don't worry, this won't stick. ;]


	10. Revenge Best Served Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, rambling, and drunken tricks

Sherlock let out a few deep breaths, trying to pull himself together again while leaning against the wall of the restaurant near the bar, his cheeks still stained a deep red. _Where is…_ His thought was cut short when he locked eyes with John for a moment. The doctor was completely wasted, not only that but there was pain in his eyes. Sherlock had managed to hurt John again. At first he was pleased that John was hurt…but there was too much hurt in those eyes. Sherlock swallowed, watching as John left the restaurant. People were staring at him for the scene he’d made but he didn’t care. He somehow managed to hurt John yet again when he’d only wanted to break a promise, maybe piss him off a bit. Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall; he wanted to chase after John for he was too drunk to be going home alone, if he was going home at all. But where else could he go? John didn’t have a girlfriend at the moment and as far as he knew, John and Harry were fighting. Was John going to get a girlfriend now that he’d upset him? Was John going to ask a girl out? The thought rendered through his mind while someone took a step towards him, grabbing his arm…   
  
Sherlock’s eyes followed the hand all the way up to Jason’s face. “Hey there, do you want me to take you back to my place? We can finish where we left off?” The blond licked his lips, pulling on the brunette’s arm with impatient anticipation keen in his eyes. Sherlock stared at the strange man emotionlessly…Jason did look a lot like John. That was why he had picked him, wasn’t it? Sherlock huffed out a quick breath, feeling like he had suffered a punch to the gut.   
  
“Sorry, but I am already spoken for.” He lied, drawing back his right hand, clenching it in a fist and slamming it right into the blonde’s face, just under his eye. Jason stumbled back, a waiter awkwardly managing to catch him as he flailed.   
  
“Hey! Sherlock, what is going on?” Angelo asked from behind the counters, throwing his hands up in the air.   
  
“That man is a drug dealer. He brought his products in that bag he left on his stool by the bar. Lestrade!” Sherlock was completely composed as if nothing had ever happened, although his heart was pounding within his chest. Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who had fortunately put away his mobile a while ago. “Lestrade, this man is a drug dealer from France. He has been transporting drugs over the border for a few years now. I believe if you trace his finger prints, you will recognize him.” Sherlock turned away and walked to the coat rack. He threw on his own coat, slipping his scarf around his neck tightly and efficiently. He was about to turn to leave but John’s coat caught his eye hanging on the coat rack where his had been. Guilt ran through him like a waterfall as he reached forward and grabbed the coat… Why did he always do this?   
  
Sherlock ran out of the restaurant but by now John was long gone. His ice blue eyes stared down the street but he didn’t see any cabs. John might have been too angry to wait for one. So, Sherlock took off running with John’s coat in hand in the direction of their flat. Sherlock kept running all the way down to Baker Street and by the time he got there he was covered in sweat and breathing heavily. He should have eaten something at Angelo’s because he was starting to feel light headed and ready to pass out. Grabbing his key out of his pocket he unlocked the door to their flat. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home yet, but John had definitely gotten there before him, he could see the damp footprints on the rug. Dammit, he must have taken a cab after all. “John!” He called out, not bothering to take off his coat as he went up the stairs, hooking John’s coat onto the end of the banister as he went.

 

~ * ~

 

John had sat in the cab staring listlessly out the window as a winter London slid past. His head spun a little, the effects of getting angry when you were drunk were not good ones. He rested his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes, opening them with a start when he felt the cab stop. They were in Baker Street in front of his flat and the cabbie was looking over his shoulder at him expectantly. John shuffled about for his wallet and extracted some money, handing it over before he climbed out. He nearly tripped on the curb, the dumb cabbie not pulling close enough for him to just step out onto the sidewalk. He shut the door a little too hard and rifled his pockets for his key, scowling when he didn't find it. It was in his coat pocket...which he had left at the restaurant.   
  
Heaving a long sigh, John squinted and then remembered the wood piece he and Sherlock had cut out of the door frame beneath the bottom lip of the door, hollowed it out for a key, and kept a spare there. He stooped down, his head spinning, getting the key out of the hiding spot and unlocking the flat. He tossed the extra key onto the bureau and stared up the stairs, pulling his navy blue striped sweater off as he walked, wadding it up and dropping it onto the floor in the hallway between the sitting room and the stairs to his bedroom. He looked up the stairs, more like glared up them. He really didn't want to climb them...   
  
John sunk down onto the bottom steps leading up to his room, sprawling out on them without a shirt, the army tattoo on his shoulder standing out in vivid relief and black ink against his pale skin. Turning over, he dropped his head over his crossed arms and thought about simply passing out here. It seemed like a nice option... But then Sherlock would come home and find him. That was enough to make John drag himself up onto his feet by the banister, forcing himself up to his room, unzipping his pants and pushing them down off his hips, getting tangled in the legs and falling hard onto the wood floor with a groan. He kicked his pants the rest of the way off and then kicked the door shut for good measure. The floor was cold but his body felt hot from the alcohol so he didn't mind. There he remained arms and legs akimbo just wearing a pair of light blue Y-fronts and his socks and shoes, which he tried to toe off but only managed to get one loafer off.   
  
Sherlock was a complete and utter ass...that much he knew. John stared without emotion at the corner of his bedroom, curling over onto his side, his ear pressed flat against the floor so he heard when the door downstairs slammed open and shut. He winced as the reverberation hurt his head. Sherlock's bellowing didn't help either...   
  
"Shut the fuck up..." John whispered, closing his eyes, feeling a splinter from the hardwood floor lodge itself into his cheek. He wished he could just be numb, like the moving robot detective downstairs. It would make his life so much easier... He also wished he had had the energy and the frame of mind to lock his door so Sherlock wouldn't come crashing upstairs. He probably wanted to gloat...maybe he was bringing that faggot home with him. Sherlock screwing some blonde in his bedroom...or on the sitting room sofa. The mental image was a killer one and John groaned, dragging a heavy two-ton arm up to tuck his face underneath it. His plan to get home before Sherlock had worked, but he hadn't thought so far as to how he would keep Sherlock from approaching _him._   
  
"Wanker..." John mumbled, a shiver making his whole body tremble until it passed, starting to feel the cold as it sobered him somewhat. John caught his toe at the back edge of his other shoe and managed to pry that one off with a frustrated kick, taking his anger out on it. It clunked against the bottom of the door, leaving him in his socks and underwear.

 

~ * ~

 

The detective slowly went up the stairs. He didn’t run…John was completely wasted and judging by the way he had stormed out of the restaurant, he was likely going to try to shove his fist into Sherlock’s face again. Sherlock paused at the top of the steps to outside the sitting room, he could hear nothing. If John was angry, he was being very silent about it, though it was most likely because he had drunk so much that he couldn’t bother him with moving about. Sherlock pushed the door to the sitting room open slowly; stepping in and searching the room, peaking into his own bedroom even. John must have been upstairs…He reached down and picked up John’s sweater from the floor. The doctor must have been really drunk to have started stripping on his way upstairs. A sigh escaped his lips, clutching the fabric between his fingers before tossing the shirt into the sitting room. Just as Sherlock was about to go up to John’s room he heard something knock against the bedroom door. Yes, John was still mad. Sherlock was not going to get out of this one without a scratch.   
  
Sucking it up, Sherlock ascended the stairs to John’s bedroom, his slender fingers wrapping around the doorknob and slowly turning it. John hadn’t locked the door. Sherlock gently leaned his weight against the door, causing it to swing open quietly. There he was…lying on the floor absolutely naked, well aside for some underwear and some socks. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, walking towards John with a soft and silent tread as he readied himself to dodge whatever John decided to throw at him. Sherlock sighed, reaching forward to touch John’s arm as he knelt on the floor beside the drunk and mostly naked doctor. Oh god, he smelt like nothing other than liquor. Carefully, he lifted John’s arm and wrapped his own just below John’s shoulder blades. Supporting the other man, Sherlock bit his lower lip as he somehow managed to lift John up from the floor. Heavy breaths escaped his lips and he walked forward, step by step before letting go of John when his body was right next to the bed. He shoved a hand into John’s chest, watching as his flat mate tipped back onto the mattress with little or no sense of balance to be had.   
  
Sherlock remained quiet, almost hoping that John would think he was Lestrade or one of his old girlfriends since he was almost drunk enough. He stood there for a moment, his eyes tracing John’s body in the darkened room. A blush crawled up his neck and onto his face as he looked at his friend’s body sprawled out over his bed. John was fairly well built from the war but not too bulky with muscle or flabby with fat. His eyes traced over that tattoo on John’s arm and for some reason he desired to kiss him. Actually he wanted to do more than just kiss John. After the incident at the bar, Sherlock now knew something very strange to be true. He wasn’t attracted to other people like he was attracted to John Watson. When he kissed the drug dealer at the bar, his chest hadn’t tightened and he hadn’t gotten lost in that kiss. John had some strange ability to make the detective stop thinking when their lips touched.   
  
Sherlock let out a sigh and tugged a blanket up to cover John, “Hey John, you’re going to get sick like this if you don’t put your pajamas on.” His voice was soft and filled with guilt, “John…?” He said the doctor’s name again, enjoying the way it rolled off of his tongue. Sherlock wanted to apologize but what could he say to make John forgive him? _‘I am sorry I let some guy stick his hands down my pants and suck on my tongue like it was a piece of candy. I was only using him, John. I wanted to make you mad. I also wanted to see how I reacted to kissing someone else…Oh but don’t worry he was a drug dealer, I punched him and Lestrade is taking him into custody now.’_   
  
Oh yeah, that would make a lot of sense. So, Sherlock did what the Holmes brothers did best, “Are you going to break your promise tonight? I knew you would break it, John.” Although Sherlock was vastly different from Mycroft, he stayed by John’s side, “John…I am sorry for what happened at Angelo’s tonight.” He muttered quietly, for John was most likely too drunk to have even heard him. Tomorrow morning, John would likely not even remember that he had apologized.

 

~ * ~

 

John heard steps on the stairwell below his bedroom and closed his eyes tightly, hoping beyond hope that Sherlock would be smart about things and just stay away. But it seemed he wasn't going to have his way in anything tonight. He had only had about five beers, five and a half if they were counting the Heineken that Sherlock had stolen and taken with him to the bar. He wasn't all that drunk really, more like tired and a little woozy. But the anger and the frustration were working to sharpen his focus again. He remained sprawled on his side, feeling Sherlock's presence hovering over him as the detective entered his room. "Go away..." He sighed. The next thing he knew a pair of ice cold hands were looping around him and he tried to pull away, grumbling, "Get off me...you're freezing."   
  
Suddenly, as he lay limp against Sherlock, flopping against the bed like a ragdoll, John had an idea. It was a little evil, a little devious, and very much Sherlock style. He groaned, rolling over so his back was to Sherlock. If he faced him and tried to do this, the detective would figure it out quickly. But if he kept his face pressed into his pillow, his words would be muffled and sound more drunk. He scowled, an arm flopping out across his bed. "Why should I...keep a promise to you, when you can't e'en keep a promise to me?" He muttered. John paused when he heard the soft apology from Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes didn't apologize to very many people...and he and Mrs. Hudson were about the only individuals to his knowledge who had ever received one.   
  
But he wasn't finished yet...   
  
"Why..." John sighed, rolling over and almost rolling out of bed, his arm flying out to flop over the edge of his bed, making his eyes unfocused as he opened them, staring at some middle point of space over Sherlock's hip. "Why... d'you do it...?" He wanted to know. Was it just to hurt him? To make him mad? To prove to John that he could be even more of a heartless bastard? Or to prove to John, unintentionally or otherwise, that he could never trust Sherlock with his heart? "I...s'pifically asked you not to...and you went and shoved yer tongue...down the first fuckin'...throat you saw." John's brows furrowed and he struggled with the blankets over him, pushing them off himself and muttering, "Hot..." He rolled right onto the very edge of his bed, his face turned against his pillow; his eyes closed again, both arms dangling out over open air past the edge of the mattress. "You're a ... _wanker_...that's why." John huffed, deciding he could take this opportunity to insult the detective a little bit since he was playing the 'drunk' card. "Yer a-...a user." John made a swipe at Sherlock's leg but missed since he was out of range. "You just like 'ta... use me, that's all." He scowled, kicking at the sheets again, managing to get them tangled about his knees.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock sighed, listening to John’s voice slurring, hardly making any sense at all as he spoke. John had drank this much? Was it because Sherlock had angered him? Sherlock had over stepped a line at dinner with John. When his stubbornness, childishness, and jealousy all mixed, well, John was bound to get angry with him. Sherlock on the other hand found this rather ironic. John was always yelling at him for taking drugs and smoking yet here John was, too drunk to think when _he_ was the sober one. Sherlock sighed, watching John kick off the blankets. The dark haired detective wanted to crawl into the bed with him and stay there…Sherlock took a step towards John and knelt by the bed, his face on the same level as the doctor’s now.   
  
”I really am a wanker, aren’t I?” Sherlock chuckled softly, staring at his drunken friend in the gloom of the bedroom. By his calculations according to John’s behavior, there was no way that the doctor would remember any of this by morning. He could say whatever he wanted to now and John would likely never recall it. It was a pleasant thought. Opening up to someone and letting go of his internal thoughts and emotions had never been something Sherlock had been particularly good at. Well, not unless Sherlock was overdosing or the person he was speaking to was a dead body or intoxicated out of their mind. Fortunately, for John, this was one of those cases.   
  
“I know I messed up. You can hit me all you want tomorrow. Just don’t dislocate my jaw this time.” Sherlock smiled gently. “You know what? I kissed that man because he reminded me so much of you…except for his height anyway. Anyway…I wanted to make you mad. The way you tell other people about the things I tell you…” Sherlock let out a groan as he trailed off, looking up at the ceiling for a moment as he recalled telling John about his last stash at the Chemist’s. “But I don’t regret it, John… If I hadn’t kissed that guy tonight, I wouldn’t have ever known how much more I enjoyed kissing you.” Sherlock laughed softly, looking at John’s closed eyes. He was making a fool of himself and John wasn’t here to see it so it would seem. The look on the doctor’s face if he could be fully aware of what Sherlock was saying would have likely killed the detective in his amusement. “Goodnight, John…Don’t forget to feed Watson when you wake up.” Sherlock muttered the last part, as if he was trying to make this less awkward somehow. He knew John was drunk but it still didn’t feel right to him, there was just something that was bugging him at the moment but he was too weary to contemplate it further. Sherlock turned, going back towards the bedroom door, his hand hooking onto the doorknob as he made to leave John in peace.

 

~ * ~

 

John heard Sherlock move, and by the position of his voice, he could tell that he was right before him, crouching beside the bed. He didn't dare open his eyes now; for fear that Sherlock might notice something was amiss. So he lay still, listening...   
  
A small frown worked its way between John's brows as he feigned a drunk mind slowly comprehending the words he was hearing. "You made me...really mad." He muttered, his tone almost sulking. His lips parted in shock, "You don't...regret it?" He muttered, his voice coming slow and muffled past a loose jaw. "Mmn..." He murmured, the frown on his face smoothing out when he understood, a small smile turning his lips a little, though it looked kind of sloppy. "Nhm...good night Sherl-..Sherlock." He tripped over his friend's very familiar name, though when he heard Sherlock start towards his door, he had a change of heart. Sherlock had sounded honest, even if he couldn't see his eyes and judge for himself the male's expression, he felt that what Sherlock had said was the truth. He had only kissed the guy as an experiment, which didn't make it right and it still unsettled John a little...but it made sense. Sherlock was an idiot when it came to relationships; you only had to look at his track record to see that blatant fact for yourself. "'Ey....wait." He let out a long, gusting sigh and rolled over, dragging the blankets with him and leaving a spot behind himself open, "'mere..." he murmured on a yawn, waiting for Sherlock to return and lay down beside him. He kept his back to Sherlock, stewing over what he'd just learned about the detective.   
  
So Sherlock had approached the man at the bar simply to test if he was gay...or if it was just John he was attracted to? His experiment had failed, somewhat...because the man had turned out to be a drug dealer. Or something like that? John wasn't exactly sure, because of how the scene had played out, it seemed like the man had gotten a little farther than second base with Sherlock. Maybe second and a half...his slightly addled brain didn't like those odds. He hadn't really gotten to second and a half base yet and yet a complete stranger had gotten to shove his hands down those tight little pants. John growled and turned over, his arm flopping across Sherlock's body and tensing, dragging him in until they were laying side-by-side, Sherlock's nose level with his forehead. "Mn... you smell good." He muttered, playing the part of a candidly honest drunk. He knew that if he broke character now, Sherlock would call foul play and probably be a complete and utter ass about everything all over again. John wanted to savor this moment of honesty from his friend, and also... a part of his slightly impaired mind wanted to reclaim every spot that idiot at the bar had touched on Sherlock.   
  
"S'not fair..." he grumbled after a while, "You're wearin'...too many clothes." Uncoordinated fingers found the edge of Sherlock's button down shirt after some fumbling, leaning back slightly to peer up at Sherlock with sleepy blue eyes, taking longer than was actually necessary to unbutton the front of Sherlock's shirt, only getting to the third button before he got frustrated apparently and simply pulled on the thing until Sherlock aided him. When he had that off, John pushed forward until their bodies met; overshooting the amount of strength he was using so Sherlock ended up on his back instead with John half sprawled across his front. John dropped a sloppy kiss onto a bare, pale shoulder, smiling and chuckling a little, finding an arm under him and pushing himself up, flopping off of Sherlock and slapping a hand onto his friend's cheek, misjudging his strength again. He frowned, "Oops...sorry...but you kinda...des-..deserved that." He muttered, blinking his eyes hard a few times before he pulled Sherlock's head closer by a hand behind his head, grasping his curls as his mouth fell over the brunette's. John kissed Sherlock a little sloppier than he would have liked to, but if he was too intent on his purpose, he would raise warning flags in Sherlock’s mind. So he waited, mouthing at Sherlock's lips, sliding a tongue against his bottom one, until he felt Sherlock relax beneath his hands. Hooking a leg over Sherlock's, he leaned in closer to him and let his hand wander down Sherlock's bare back, pausing at the small of it. He drew back; panting softly, blue eyes a little more awake, more interested than they had been before. "Nmn..." He let his fingers skitter distractedly against Sherlock's hip, getting a finger caught in his belt loop, then finding the front of Sherlock's pants, hooking fingers into the waistband and murmuring against Sherlock's lips, his breath laced with alcohol as he said, "These...they gotta go..." He muttered, trying to get Sherlock's pants undone himself but not making much of an effort, removing his hand so Sherlock could do it himself. He didn't wait for Sherlock to finish doing so before he moved in to slot their lips together again; groaning into the kiss like he was already on the brink of his climax. He parted his lips, sliding his tongue forward to tease at Sherlock's into coming out to play.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock stopped at the door frame, hearing John mumble something behind him. The detective turned around, only to watch his friend roll over in an attempt to make room for him on the mattress. It was strange how quickly a smile crossed his lips. Closing the door to the bedroom, Sherlock walked over to the bed and stepped on the heel of his shoe, slipping them off before slowly climbing into the bed next to John. This simple act made him happy somehow and he would never admit it to John when he was sober, but he had begun to fear sleeping alone since they had first slept together. Sherlock pulled the blanket back over them as he rested his head on one of John’s pillows. It was very warm beneath the sheets and Sherlock’s body shivered, realizing how cold he actually was from walking home from Angelo’s. “Thanks…I thought you were going to make me sleep alone tonight.”   
  
Sherlock was about to move closer to John when the doctor turned over suddenly. He tensed up as John tugged him closer across the bed and he blinked at the sudden change of heart, the tip of his nose pressing against John’s forehead. A soft sigh escaped his lips and he decided he might as well enjoy this before John threw him in the dog house in the morning. Gently, he lifted his head and placed a soft kiss on John’s forehead. At first, he thought John would fall asleep in this position. That was until John started trying to strip him. Sherlock felt his body go hot with nerves and burgeoning desire and he thought about every time he had walked around without anything but a towel or a sheet on in the flat but now, taking off his shirt made him blush the shade of John’s Monday knickers. “I am not wearing a lot of cloths. It’s not my fault you took all of yours off.” He muttered softly, some form of constriction appearing in his chest as John fumbled with his shirt buttons…Was this how they were going to end up having it off with each other for the first time? His blushes darkened to a deep red as the thought passed his mind.   
  
Here he was, John trying to strip him while Sherlock blushed like a virgin. The man at the bar had not been a bad kisser and he had seemed good with his hands…and yet why was a drunken John able to make his body shiver and the sober stranger from the bar unable to even make him relax? Sherlock already knew the answer to that question. Which was why, he finished unbuttoning his shirt for John and slid it off his thin shoulders himself, and anticipation sprouting knots in his belly. Luckily he did this just before John draped his heavy body against him, managing to shove Sherlock onto his back. He let out a sharp breath, lifting his head up just as John slapped him across the cheek. The detective blinked in confusion, his blush darkening. He understood his feelings for John…But the feeling that arose from that slap to the cheek were entirely different, “N-no…It’s okay.” He couldn’t believe the odd tone in his voice for he sounded almost soft and he shuttered once. That ability in John alone made him nervous. How could such a simple, average army doctor reduce a world genius to this state?  
  
Sherlock tensed again, concentrating on the feel of John’s bare chest pressed against his own. The warmth of John’s skin nearly made him want to stay like this forever; forget cases and the chemical world, he could just lie here. He found himself dazed by the warmth of John’s body, too lost to notice a pair of lips coming for his until their mouths slotted together. That feeling came back into his stomach even though the kiss was a little sloppy this time. Closing his eyes, one of his arms moved up John’s chest and slid up to slide his curious fingers along a soft column of neck. After John licked his lower lip, he began to relax under John’s lead, parting his own lips to lick his way into John’s own mouth. Sherlock’s hand trailed across John’s shoulder, his fingertips tracing the intricate tissue scars of John’s old bullet wound. He shivered and trembled as John drew him closer and he ran his hand down the slope of John’s back. Once John broke the kiss, Sherlock almost pouted. He didn’t like it when John broke their kisses. The brunette opened his eyes slowly, his heart racing in his chest.   
  
He peered up at John with eyes full of need and desire. It didn’t matter if John was drunk or if he was mad at him still, or even if he wouldn’t remember any of this by morning. Right now he was stuck in that trance John could so easily put him in by giving him a simple kiss. No matter the state his mind was in, Sherlock was triggered into stiffening when John began trying to take his pants off. John was already only in his underwear and yet Sherlock had never gotten that far with him before. Sherlock opened his mouth as if he was about to try and tell John no but then he got a good look at John’s eyes…Those blue eyes could make him do anything. Sherlock reached down with his free hand and unbuttoned his pants, too nervous to actually push them down. Just as he unbuttoned them, John’s lips collided with his again and all higher thought was lost. He closed his eyes again, pressing the line of himself back along John’s body as his tongue left his lips to press against John’s.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock was chilled and John wondered if he'd walked here and not taken a cab. But that thought was fleeting for he was too distracted by the other male's movements. He felt Sherlock's navel with his warm fingertips, and knew Sherlock had undone his pants, but he hadn't removed them. At the moment, John could care less. He reached for Sherlock with careless, grasping fingers, finding purchase on the brunette's hip. He looped the other arm under Sherlock's neck and rolled with him, moving onto his back and pulling Sherlock over on top of himself, their bodies pressing together, John's head sinking into a plush pillow. He slid his tongue along Sherlock's and moaned at the heat of it as they kissed, his head reeling from the heady mix of alcohol swirling around the beginnings of arousal. He slid his hands down Sherlock's back, wandering without an apparent path at first until his fingers touched the waistband of Sherlock's slacks. He paused, and then pushed his fingers down the back of Sherlock's pants, taking a few tries before he got all his fingers in the right place and not caught up in the waistband of the trousers. John gripped Sherlock's rear end through his briefs like it was a ripe piece of fruit, pulling him down against his own hips and trying to talk into their shared kiss. He eventually pulled his head back and panted, his voice raspy and gravely, "Mine." He grunted, lifting his head to land another kiss on Sherlock's mouth but missing and just deciding to roll with it, letting his lips travel a wet, hot path down Sherlock's throat.   
  
John kneaded the twin globes of flesh in his palms, sliding a leg between Sherlock's to put some pressure on his pelvic bone. He drug Sherlock into another searching, lingering kiss, letting it grow and bleed into another and then another. He thrust his tongue forward into Sherlock's open mouth, tasting of alcohol no doubt. He left one hand down Sherlock's pants but also moved the other along the brunette's back again, dragging blunt nails against soft, pliable flesh to slide into Sherlock's brown curls, grasping them tightly and using that leverage to yank Sherlock's head back in a moment of strength, exposing that throat again and rolling them across to the other side of the bed, laying side-by-side now. John groaned against Sherlock's elongated neck, planting sloppy, biting, sucking kisses over the flesh there, leaving behind marks unintentionally. He was swept up in the passion that was Sherlock and even though his body was growing heavy and harder to control, his will to continue on was hard to ignore, the same as the stirring in the front of his Y-fronts was hard to ignore. He still had a hand down Sherlock's pants, dragging their hips together so Sherlock could feel how turned on he was.   
  
He made it down to the sharp point of Sherlock's shoulder before John had to draw back, his eyelids heavy even though he wished they weren't. He brushed his lips against his flat mate's again, but the kiss didn't last as long as the others had, his arm no longer supporting his weight against the mattress and crumpling, his head hitting the pillow beside the detective. John grunted, tucking his head beneath Sherlock's chin, licking the hollow of his throat and on up over his Adam’s apple, a shiver running through his body as his hands relaxed where they clenched hair and flesh, their bodies twisted up in the sheets from their several position changes. John hummed low in his throat, a contented sound, but it wasn't long before he didn't make any sound at all, his soft breath fanning against damp, saliva slick skin over Sherlock's throat. He had passed out...in all actuality as well, no trick behind the action this time. When John drank, it was only a matter of time before his body would give out and he'd sleep it off for a long time and wake up with a killer headache. John moaned softly in his sleep but that was the only indication that he was even still alive, his limps having gone limp the moment he had shut his eyes, which was a big mistake on his part. He was dead weight, an arm draped over Sherlock's side, hand still shoved down the back of his black slacks. The other arm was outstretched and limp under Sherlock's head, probably about to lose circulation in fact. The beginnings of whatever arousal he had been nurturing was flagging now, going soft and placid in his sleep, his hair tousled from rolling around across the bed with Sherlock in tow.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock was too lost in John’s heat to even notice his soberness. His tongue was entangled with John’s, curiously sucking gently at John’s as they rolled over. If anyone was getting drunk, it was Sherlock. The taste of the alcohol mixing into his own saliva was rather heady. He hated beer but he loved the taste of it on John’s tongue. His fingers rubbed the sides of John’s body, sliding them up to his shoulders and grasping onto him for dear life. It was as if John had strapped him into a roller coaster, only this one involved them rolling about on a bed together. Sherlock pressed his body against John’s, almost desperate to be touched. His hands moved up again, sliding up the sides of John’s neck to grip at the short hair along the nape of the doctor’s neck tightly.   
  
Sherlock was too lost in the kiss to notice the hands slipping into the back of his trousers until he felt squeezing hands on his arse cheeks, which drew a soft moan from Sherlock’s lips. The blush painting his cheeks grew darker, feeling an old forgotten tightness beginning to develop in the front of his briefs. He knew what it was but it honestly had been too long since he had sustained his last erection that he had been surprised by the discomfort of it. While other teenagers jerked off at least twice a day, as a teenager he had only done it once and then went off to go play with sulfuric acid and steal Mycroft’s stuff, losing all interest for the useless practice. Sherlock tried to hide the tenting in his trousers by shifting his hips to the side but John merely pulled them back again, grinding their hips together and dragging a soft moan from Sherlock’s lips. When John pulled away, the detective let out a gasping breath, “I know, just fucking kiss me already.” He snapped with no hesitation or thought, only the heavy need. He just wanted to feel John against him, all of him, bare skin to bare skin. John’s comment did make the flutters return to his stomach but he had become more used to the strange feelings.

  
He couldn’t help but chuckle as John missed his mouth and began kissing his neck. Soft moans and weak cries escaped his lips, pressing his arse back into John’s hands as John continued to grope him. He groaned, feeling John’s leg pressing against his crotch with a bit of blessed pressure and friction as he tilted his hips into the welcome brace. Sherlock gasped feeling the tightness in his trousers building as John drew him back into another kiss. It was fair to say that now; Sherlock was completely drunk off of whatever John was doing to him, alcohol or no alcohol. As the kiss deepened, John’s tongue pushing hurriedly into his mouth again, Sherlock’s body began reacting more openly to John’s movements in an almost wanton fashion. His hips pressed against John’s, rocking his crotch into John’s thigh and arching his back as he drew his nails up through the doctor’s hair and yanked on as many strands as he could grasp, earning another moan from the both of them. His breath was heavy and his heart felt as though it could burst straight out of his chest. His back arched again, gasping and flicking his eyes open as John bit at his neck. A loud moan shuddered past his swollen lips and he bite back another as John tortured him.

Sherlock tried to keep calm as John rocked their hips together again, feeling how hard John had become making needles of sharp anticipation and excitement flash across all his limbs and down his spine. The young brunette collapsed with John onto the bed, his arm falling out to the side. His chest rose and fell quickly as John positioned his head against Sherlock’s chest and just under his chin. The drunk had finally gotten tired and Sherlock would be rather happy right now if it wasn’t for two things. One was that Sherlock still desperately wanted more and the second was that the detective’s erection was still persisting. Sherlock didn’t exactly want to move and risk waking his partner so he sighed and kept his head on the pillow, gently wrapping an arm around John’s body and smoothing his hair back out of the way of his face. Sherlock tilted his head down and kissed the top of John’s head. “Goodnight John.” Tomorrow was going to be plenty of fun, he knew. Closing his eyes he tried to relax again, ignoring the tent in his briefs. He remained awake for a while, fidgeting with the problem in his pants until he could finally join John in disappointed sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so happy we've conjured up a little following, you guys are all awesome! We'd love to hear some feedback from you all, so drop us a comment or something. =] Hope you enjoyed the first really physical (intimate) installment of the story!


	11. Apple Bottom Jeans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another argument, more passive aggressive retaliation, and a dangerous mistake...

Whoever thought that it was a brilliant idea to have the morning after a night of drinking be so horrendous should be drug out into the street and shot. John winced as the light from between a slit in the curtains fell across his forehead and dashed morning light over his eyes. He huffed and closed his eyes tighter, a hard, boney chest his pillow. Slowly, in pieces, the night before filtered back to him with an overcast of a slight drunk haze. Sherlock had apologized; he had admitted he'd only kissed the man in the bar to see if he felt the same about all men, or about John. But he had responded more to John...   
  
John squinted an eye open to glance at the clock on his nightstand, only to realize he was facing the wrong way to see it, it was on his other bedside table. Sighing softly, he assessed the situation at bold face value. His head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder just below his chin, an arm stretched out over Sherlock's shoulder, shoved under the pillows his flat mate's head rested on. He felt a little stiff in this position, and not just his back and neck either. Slowly, John slid his arm that was sandwiched between their bodies beneath himself, propping himself up on that elbow as he slowly eased his other arm out from beside Sherlock's head. He had a leg draped between Sherlock's two and the pressure in his Y-fronts wasn’t aided by the fact that his hips were firmly pressed forward into Sherlock's thigh.   
  
He froze when he opened his eyes, having rubbed the sleep from them. The pounding in his head lessened a little at the sight that met him. Sherlock was asleep, a blessing in and of itself really, his features in complete relaxation his lips parted faintly in deep, long breaths. John swallowed, remembering what they'd got up to the night before. He had initiated that, he knew...but Sherlock had been just as insistent in his need as well and he considered picking up where he'd left off. Morning sex was one of his favorite things. But it would be a mistake to do so when they hadn't even fully discussed where this...thing that their relationship had taken on...was going. John wished he could just overlook it, wanted to just assume that Sherlock would accept him, but if there was one thing he had learned in his time of knowing Sherlock it was that you could never assume something about the man.   
  
John couldn’t resist all his urges however, although he did shift his hips and leg away from Sherlock's lower half, mostly so he wouldn't be paining himself in holding back. He found Sherlock's arm thrown out behind him against the bed and lifted it gently over his head, setting it back against Sherlock's side before he ventured to drop a soft kiss on Sherlock's shoulder, tipping his head up to graze his nose against Sherlock's brow and into his hair. He breathed in the scent that was fully and only Sherlock and closed his eyes as he exhaled. Though he'd love to lie around and have a lazy morning just watching Sherlock doze, John was the type of man who couldn't simply lie in bed for long without doing something. So he got up and fished his robe off the back of his door, tugging it on and padding downstairs to feed Sherlock's ridiculous fish and nick some aspirin from his bag in the bathroom. He swallowed them with a wince and took the full glass of water back up to his room with him, knowing the reason for such a horrible hangover was dehydration. He sat down on the edge of his bed next to Sherlock and leaned forward to tug the curtain closed better, blocking out the sliver of pure, bright sunshine. It was bloody cold out there in the dregs of winter, but it could be horribly bright in the morning still.   
  
Sipping his water, John reached out with his other hand and set it against Sherlock's bare chest, looking down at the shirt that had been discarded last night in their haste to get closer to each other, to crawl into each other’s skin. He grimaced around the rim of his glass as he drank some more water, a little glad that they hadn't managed to get any farther than what he figured they had. He didn't care about farther in the future, but if it came to his and Sherlock's first time together as a couple, or as lovers...John would rather be sober and remember it all rather than blurred snippets. He remembered grasping that firm apple of an ass and had to pinch his lips between his teeth to keep from smiling like a dope and shaking his head. Sherlock had been just as turned on as he had been; he had felt that much at least. Finishing his water, John set the empty glass on the bedside table and let his fingers skim lightly down the middle of Sherlock's exposed chest, teasing him, "You going to lie in my bed all day, Sherlock...?" John murmured, reaching up to thread his fingers through the horrible mess of curls on his flat mate's head, brushing his thumb over Sherlock's forehead. "You can't steal my sheet this time; it was a bitch getting my bed put back together."

 

~ * ~

 

The warmth that caressed him into sleep was replaced by a draft. Sherlock frowned; his sleeping hands trying to catch the edges of the sheets and bring them up. That horrible draft traveled up the detective’s body making him shiver and slowly awaken. He kept his eyes closed, not yet willing to face the morning light or his flat mate’s wrath. The lines on his face wrinkled as something moved into his hair. Sherlock let out a soft groan, rolling onto his stomach to try and escape. He didn’t think that would stop it but in a morning haze, that’s all he had the energy or thought for doing. He could make out John’s voice from where he was sitting next to him…That cruel, cruel bastard who left him in the bed alone to grow cold. “Mine.” He muttered almost mockingly considering the events of the night before, adding a soft growl to his voice as his fingers laced with the sheet wrapped around him.   
  
Sherlock tried to pull the duvet higher up, attempting to get back some of the heat he had lost when John had gotten up out of bed. It was rather strange that John was up this early, considering how drunk he had been the night before. It was also odd that John wasn’t doubled over with a massive hangover. Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly, gazing up at his flat mate with suspicious curiosity, “John…why aren’t you yelling at me?” Sherlock questioned in his sleepy voice, still debating on whether or not to pull John back into the bed with him and just go back to sleep. His sleepy brain was working over this conundrum however, Sherlock attempted to ignore it for he didn’t want it to be true. Saying that John hadn’t been that drunk earlier that night would mean that everything Sherlock had done and said….John would be remembering perfectly this morning.   
  
Sherlock rolled over listlessly again, this time onto his back. “John? Where is my shirt?” He questioned drowsily, not actually caring where his shirt was but wanting to see how John would react. Sherlock wasn’t just going to come out and ask him if he remembered everything from last night. But if he did…Sherlock would likely have to figure out some way to make John dismiss everything he had said when he’d thought John too drunk to absorb his words. Until that hopeful theory was proven, Sherlock hugged a pillow close and ended up chucking it at John when he didn’t move fast enough. He wrapped the sheet tightly around himself and slid off the bed, standing in his black pants which instantly fell down since there was nothing holding them up anymore, his belt missing in action somewhere on the floor. Sherlock walked forward and out of his pants, leaving them on the rug beside the bed. He let out a great, big yawn and leaned his head back and moaned, “Why am I awake?”

 

~ * ~

 

John chuckled as Sherlock slowly and begrudgingly came awake, rolling away from him and onto his stomach. He slid his hand down Sherlock's back over the sheet he tugged up to his ears. Sherlock slept like a child really, all burrowing and complaining. "Hm?" He was distracted from his contemplations as Sherlock spoke. "I'm not yelling...because I'm not all that mad anymore." He murmured, tempted to shed his robe and climb back into bed with him. But it was nearly eleven...   
  
Blue eyes met drowsy, sleepy greys, "Your shirt? I should suppose it's on the floor, why?" John frowned, stifling a yawn into his hand before he rubbed his stiff neck. "Don't you remember?" He awkwardly caught the pillow that flew at his face, blocking it with an upturned arm so it flopped to the ground. "Sherlock...?" Frowning, he picked it up and tossed it onto the end of the bed as the detective stripped the sheets again. John heaved a long, tiresome sigh, rubbing his brow with tense fingers. "Right, destroy my bed, brilliant..." He said under his breath, looking up as Sherlock flopped back against the wall, mummified in his bed sheets. "Why? Because it's after eleven...and probably because I left the bed, now-" John got up with a grunt and tightened the belt around his robe as he moved around to the other side of the bed, facing Sherlock there, looking up into his nearly awake face. "Are we going to talk about this...?" He pursed his lips and spread his hands with a mild shrug, "Or are we just going to pretend like you weren't a bastard last night...I accept your apologies for it, but in all honesty you thought you were talking to a drunk man." John wasn't dumb, he knew how Sherlock worked... he knew the other male didn't admit things easily unless a back was turned, an ear was deaf, or a man was blind.   
  
"I understand you kissed the drug dealer to piss me off, but little good that did you anyway..." John managed a tight smile, blue eyes narrowed a little in the expression. "You didn't like it as much as snogging with me." His voice was a little cheery toned and he folded his arms across his robed chest, taking a few slow, deliberate steps towards Sherlock, getting in his space, letting his critical blue eyes scan Sherlock's face. "So I forgave you last night...and if I hadn't passed out, I'm sure we would still be asleep." John reached out and grasped the edge of his bed sheet, giving it a tug with arched brows, "Now give me back my sheet. Go get your own."

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock kept his head against the wall, his body slowly dipping out of its sleep. John knew where his shirt was and he forgave him…John remembered everything from that night. Even his embarrassingly pathetic apology…John had tricked him. Sherlock had to give John credit for that. Tricking a man who observes everything he sees is not an easy task. Even Mycroft, a man who saw everything, had failed to fool him countless times. Yet, here John was. Sherlock sighed and banged his head against the wall. “Beds are meant to be laid in. It is the whole reason for the invention. I am simply using it.” Sherlock banged his head against the wall once more before turning around.   
  
There was a mix of admiration and confidence in those icy eyes. “Finally, I have been dying to have an intervention with you about your addiction to jam. We should invite, Mrs. Hudson up here. The more the merrier.” He spoke quickly and sarcastically, grabbing onto the sheet tightly as John tugged on it. “Don’t you want to get me naked? Always knew you had a thing for guys. If only your ex-girlfriends could see you now, trying to rip a sheet off of your flat mate’s body.” Sherlock gripped the edges of the sheet tighter about himself, “How is it yours? It is _wrapped_ around my body.” Sherlock kept his grip, keeping his back to the wall. He knew very well that he could not hold onto the sheet forever. John was stronger than he gave himself credit for.   
  
“We are not talking about last night. There is nothing to talk about. I saw a guy, I kissed him. Thank you very much for your lessons. Did you have fun on your honeymoon with your new bride _Gregette_?” His voice was sharp and quick, not missing a single beat. Sherlock was purposefully trying to get John angry. If he succeeded in that, he would not have to face John when he started asking him about his feelings for him. Sherlock clutched at the sheet tightly, the light fabric falling off his shoulders to reveal the purplish hickeys on his neck that John had left from the night before. “That was an impressive act though--last night. However, you are wrong. I knew you were faking it. Your slur was too forced and your breath was hardly even pungent with liquor. Five or six beers worth would be my guess, though not enough to get you completely intoxicated. Now, you see John, it was not you who was playing me last night, it was I who was playing _you_.” Sherlock smiled with a certain amount of mustered brevity and smugness.

 

~ * ~

 

John pushed his lips out, narrowing his eyes in confusion and looking off to the side for a moment as Sherlock spoke before those baby blues snapped back onto the detective's face. "Right, but I-" He was cut off again by one of Sherlock's rapid fire rants, taking a half step back but stepping forward again right after, shifting forward and back on his heels a little, his tongue sliding around the fronts of his teeth behind his lips, a mechanism for keeping his words in until he had a moment to speak. "Right, I am, yes...no, no, no." He shook his head, his grasp tightening around the front of his bed sheet wrapped around Sherlock's body. He wasn't going to let Sherlock change the subject so easily.   
  
"I'm _not_...!" He lowered his voice a few decibels and hissed, "...gay, Sherlock. It's not that I have a thing for _guys_ , I just have a bloody thing for-" He threw his hands up in the air as Sherlock interrupted him again, pacing away from his friend with his hands laced on the top of his head. "Oh my god, you don't shut up do you..." he blinked up at the ceiling and heaved a long sigh, getting a handle on the anger that was rising in his chest. If he got mad...Sherlock won. "It is _my_ sheet because _I_ bought it, you bloody bastard!" John whirled around and stormed up to Sherlock, yanking him away from the wall by the front of the sheet clasped around him and glowered up into his face with calculating eyes. Alright, so he was a _little_ angry… "Honeymoon my _arse_ Sherlock, don't you dare bring that crap up again. You're just using it as a defense!" He knew Sherlock better than the detective gave him credit for and he heaved a long, frustrated sigh out through his nose, a soft chuckle sounding low and dangerous in the bottom of his throat. He pointed up to Sherlock's neck, "Right, well, try explaining _those_ to your new _boyfriend_ then." He whirled around and stooped, picking up Sherlock's pants, the belt clinking as he scooped it up too and he chucked them both at Sherlock's chest. He moved around the bed and found Sherlock's shirt, throwing that at him as well.   
  
"Fine, take the bloody sheet," He narrowed his eyes and folded his arms stubbornly across his chest, his chin jutting out as he spoke slyly, "I'll just nick something of yours, something small that you'll only notice when you really need it...then I'll be nowhere to be found." John could be clever enough for that at least.   
  
"Alright, fine, so you knew I was acting." John spread his hands out from his sides, his brows raised and his expression one of someone saying in sub-text 'uuuh, helloooo?’, "So you just let me continue acting while, all the while, you _knew_ that I wasn't drunk enough to forget the things you said _or_ the fact that you reciprocated!?" John pulled a Sherlock move and stepped up onto the edge of his bed, walking across it and jumping down to land right in front of his mate again. "Seems real logical, you know...taking _advantage_ of a situation like that." He snorted, "Like you were using me for my body? Like hell, you begged me to kiss you Sherlock, I have it right. Up. Here. You can't even take that one away Sherlock, or deny it." He tapped his temple, a smug smile spreading his lips.   
  
"But now, you've pissed me off you tosser," John bent at the waist and picked up Sherlock's shoes beside the bed, shoving them into his friend's armload of clothes hard enough to make him stumble. "Get out; I'm not your prostitute."

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock caught the pants that John threw at him, pressing the fabric to his chest. “ _New_ boyfriend? I have never had a _boyfriend_ or a girlfriend for that matter.” His eyes darted back and forth on the floor as if he was looking at something. Boyfriend? His brow rose and he caught the shirt, pressing it against his chest while raising his head back up to meet John’s gaze. “I don’t have _boyfriends_. All I have is my work and you, and apparently the sheet as well.” He stepped forward, rolling his eyes. “Though a sheet is much less _irritating_ than a person. It doesn’t think or speak, saying stupid things or looking stupidly about. It’s similar to a dog or a pet, only a sheet does not bite or empty its bowels everywhere. I will never understand why people get pets. Fish, possibly, but dogs no.”   
  
An odd smile crossed those lips as John devised his own _evil_ plan to get back at him. Sherlock let out a short laugh, “That sounds very clever John. Though next time, I suggest that you not say it out-loud to me, now I’ll just be on my guard.” His violin, laptop and phone were the things that kept him most preoccupied. However, all of those could be easily replaced. The detective never really cared for material things like most people who had their phones, their electronics, and their cars. Cases, the more mysterious the better, and then the chase was another thing entirely—all things he craved more than any material thing. Hell, John could steal all the clothing he owned and he wouldn’t give a flying toss. Sherlock would just walk around in his sheet and John would have to put up with it.   
  
He stopped thinking a mile a minute to listen to John as he caught a flaw in his own words. The army doctor was not some foolish nit-wit that he used to have to see when he worked on cases long before John had come around. John had learned from him, which in return almost drew a smug smile of his own to his lips. He would have embraced him and for once given him some kind words. Yet, the topic at hand made the detective’s mood change from one end of the spectrum to the other. He didn’t dare show it on his face but he was starting to feel horribly defensive.   
  
John took on Sherlock’s complete demeanor, prancing around the room like an arrogant prick and Sherlock took a step toward John as he landed before him off the edge of the bed, “What if I was just using your body? Don’t forget, John, you were the one pretending to be drunk. I was merely playing the same game as you were last night. Although, now one question remains, who was the better actor?” His face was set in stone, all his discomfort masked. Sherlock just made up some words to keep the doctor’s thoughts elsewhere while he got the wild beating of his heart back under control.   
  
Sherlock grabbed his shoes and gave John one final fake smile before he was turning back and walking through the bedroom door, John’s top sheet sliding off his body and fluttering to the floor in a forgotten heap. He walked down the stars, calling back up to John over his shoulder, “You have to do laundry today, my dear prostitute!” Sherlock grinned, walking back into the sitting room and dropping all of his discarded clothing onto the floor. He let out another bored yawn and flung his body onto the coffee table, his back pressing up against the cool surface of the furniture in nothing but his charcoal black boxer briefs. He stretched his arms back, letting them tumble down over the edges of the table. John would know by now about how he felt for the man. Any complete moron would be able to tell, well, perhaps not Anderson. However, Sherlock didn’t feel ready to actually be open and honest to John about this matter. After all, Sherlock was an unsociable, uninterested, high-functioning sociopath. Or so they told him… 

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock was more than just a prick, more than an asshole...heart-breaker wasn't even the right term. But John was hardly fazed by Sherlock's rude rebuttal, folding his arms across his chest again in a show of stubbornness. "Right, like that makes you less of a wanker." He huffed, shaking his head in disbelief, looking down at the floor. "It doesn't _matter_ who the best bloody actor was," He frowned at Sherlock, "It still goes to show you were playing along with it, you _wanted_ me, Sherlock..." John narrowed his eyes as Sherlock gathered his sheet and clothes and pranced out of the room like some smug cat with its tail in the air.   
  
John threw up his hands and stomped after him, only to turn away to go into his bathroom. "Right, _no_ , that's not in my job description. Do your own damn laundry Sherlock!" He shut the bathroom door a little harder than he would have liked before turning on the shower. He stood under the spray for a long time, letting the hot water ease some of the tension out of his neck and shoulders. His wound was starting to heal up enough where he wouldn't have to put a bandage over it any longer and he was glad for that... but it's presence only reminded him of saving his friends life. He didn't regret it...but sometimes he wondered if a bookcase falling on him would knock some bloody sense into his head.   
  
It was going to be a long, awkward, painful battle...   
  
Three days; it took three days before things started to get really ridiculous. John woke up one morning after spending a hard night at the clinic, intending to get to the gym again since he realized how out of shape he had become since Sherlock had been gone. He wasn't fat, though he knew there was a little paunch around his mid-section... but his muscle mass had decreased a great deal since their parting of ways. He was going to remedy that, especially if Sherlock was going to keep throwing them into dangerous situations.   
  
He showered as he usually did, moving upstairs without a word spoken to anyone. He had been ignoring Sherlock for the past three days, which wasn't saying much since they hardly spoke as it was. It seemed Sherlock was out this morning, but he wouldn't really know unless he went into the sitting room, which he mostly avoided now. The flat was quiet, but he couldn't make assumptions...   
  
Upstairs, he opened his closet and stopped, looking at the open drawer that held his trousers. There wasn't a single clean pair of trousers folded in there. He had been putting off laundry when he went back into the clinic for they had needed him right away as soon as he had gotten back from his short holiday. He hardly had a moment except in the evenings, and then he was too exhausted to even remember. But he'd had another pair of trousers he’d thought...   
  
"Sherlock!" John pulled on a pair of his briefs under his towel and searched his wardrobe quickly for anything he might be able to wear. Well...if Sherlock was going to be an ass, John would show him not to mess. John found them in a box tucked in the back of his closet and took a moment to block out the memories associated with them before he tugged on the old uniform roughly. When he came downstairs, his shoes stomped on the steps, heavy army boots with steel reinforced toes. The trousers still fit him, which was a good thing actually, meant he hadn't lost his touch. He didn't don the uniform shirt though, opting for a tank top. He'd found his dog tags thrown in there too, and put them on as well. Folding his arms across his chest tightly, he stood in the doorway to the sitting room and looked around, "Sherlock bloody Holmes!" He walked into the room for a few steps so he could look into the kitchen for his flat mate, maybe he was doing some nasty as all get out experiment again. The tattoo over his upper bicep flexed with his muscles under his skin. "Sherlock, this has gone too far, it takes little to no effort to put your damn clothes in the wash instead of _stealing mine_!"

 

~ * ~

 

The next day was filled with the most excruciating boredom that Sherlock had ever experienced. Well, perhaps that was over-dramatizing things. But he was lying in the dry bathtub, playing nursery songs on his violin for four hours straight. The bathroom had wonderful acoustics and Sherlock played until someone knocked on the front door downstairs. Immediately, the detective shot up, dashing out of the tub, still wearing only a sheet wrapped around his body almost like a toga. He pulled open the door downstairs, expecting it to be someone other than who it actually was. It was a woman named Darcy Ridgley. The woman shuffled into the foyer, crying up a storm. Sherlock had to hush her down so it would not attract any attention from the prostitute of a flat mate upstairs. Darcy was a woman in her late thirties who came to consult Sherlock due to the passing of her younger brother Riley. The death was announced as a suicide, the body was found in an alleyway, burn to the crisp. But oddly enough, the only way they were able to even identify him was from a note. The boy’s ID was tapped to an envelope which contained his supposed suicide note. Darcy pleaded with Sherlock until he accepted her case, although it did not take too much effort to solve. It wasn’t every day a person tapes their own ID to the suicide note and char broiled themselves.   
  
Sherlock had escorted her back downstairs when he’d finished with his questions, lying to Mrs. Hudson and telling her that he refused the case, muttering something about the woman’s sanity. Mrs. Hudson believed him, attempting to give him a lecture about the yelling. Things between the two flat mates were still rather sour for Sherlock did not want to admit that he needed John, even though he had said it before. What he was feeling for his flat mate was something he did not want to talk about. Emotions as such were not something he needed…Even still…   
  
The Riley case began like any other with a few minor differences. Sherlock would sneak out of the flat, which wasn’t that difficult considering John was avoiding him entirely. He would only catch glimpses of John through the windows now and again on his way to and from 221B, so he was fairly certain John knew he was busying himself. Sherlock proceeded to venture to Pett’s Woods alone, where the body of Riley Ridgley had been found. During these investigations, things began to get interesting. The late Riley had been an ordinary bloke of twenty-two, there was nothing too interesting about him in fact. He had an ordinary job and an ordinary family; however, he had developed a problem controlling his alcohol consumption. The local bartender had ranted to Sherlock about how often the young man would come and get completely wasted at his establishment and run up his tab. The night Riley had disappeared he had went to the bar, got extremely pissed before wondering out onto the streets. Now what happened next was something Sherlock could not simply deduce. There were no witnesses who had seen Riley after he’d left the bar and Sherlock searched the alleys and paths but found nothing out of the ordinary…which was odd. Not a single waste bin was turned over, no signs of rummaging from the local homeless either, no matter which direction he went in.  
  
Sherlock found himself coming back late into the night, avoiding creaky stairs on his way up to the flat and closing doors silently behind himself. Aside from the sneaking about for the last couple of days, Sherlock mainly kept to himself and didn’t speak a word to John, something that had been normal in their earlier working relationship. He would only talk to Mrs. Hudson every once in a while as he was grabbing food from her fridge. The detective had been eating like a _normal_ person surprisingly: breakfast, lunch, and dinner were all meals he was reacquainting himself with. The incident at the castle in Ireland had struck a nerve and Sherlock had been foolish to allow himself to get so weak in the face of such dangers he and John courted on such a regular basis, and so he was attempting to recover some of that last spry he’d had before, especially since he no longer had John along at his side for this case. Every so often he would be tempted to text John and tell him to get ready or meet him at some location for a second opinion. However, Sherlock would write the texts but would never send them, deleting them and turning his phone over and over in his pocket like a subconscious tick.   
  
But Sherlock found another way to get back at John, since the doctor was refusing to do the laundry these days. The lazy detective would wonder into John’s room and steal clothing from his drawers while the doctor was out. Nearly John’s entire wardrobe was now located in the corner of Sherlock’s bedroom in a large pile on the floor. Sherlock wouldn’t bother himself with ordinarily stupid tasks that normal people participated in, such as actually _doing_ the mundane chore of laundry. After all, he had John to do those kinds of things for him; the doctor just needed a little external motivation it would seem. So, Sherlock would steal clothing from John to wear for the day and not return it when he’d used them.   
  
It had been exactly three days after their initial argument in the bedroom when Sherlock first saw John. It started out like usual, Sherlock took a shower and walked around in a towel, waiting patiently for John to preoccupy himself. Once his friend climbed into the shower, the detective snuck up into John’s room and took the last remaining clothing out from his drawers. Sherlock snuck back downstairs and went into the sitting room to get changed. He pulled the black and white stripped sweater over his head. It was one of John’s lighter sweaters and it was long enough that it covered Sherlock’s torso. Then he slid on the last pair of John’s dark blue jeans…They were at the bottom of the drawer so they were most likely the oldest pair John had. It was obvious when he felt how tight they were, washed and dried so many times that the fabric had shrunk a bit and was soft and worn. Fortunately, Sherlock had smaller legs than John so they fit like a glove. Though, the jeans were snug on his arse, hugging his cheeks closely. Sherlock usually didn’t wear jeans for this reason…They made his arse look huge…   
  
Sherlock opened the fridge, nothing really out of the ordinary. He had given Mrs. Hudson money the day before to go grocery shopping for him and she’s tutted about not being his ‘housekeeper’ and how she’d only be doing it this once; yada, yada, yada. The fridge was filled with a fresh assortment of food from her trip when usually it was filled with fingers and body parts…Those he kept in a smaller fridge in his bedroom now since John had nearly taken his head off for it since they’d had the flat cleaned. Sherlock poured a cup of coffee for himself, adding two sugars and sitting at the end of the table facing away from the doorway. He blew on his coffee some before he took a sip. Today he was going to go out to check a few more areas of the local haunts that had been known to the late Riley Ridgley. Sherlock had caught a lead in this case and he was going to follow it through. There were various murders that had been performed in the last few years that matched the pattern of this one rather distinctly for each of the bodies had been completely unidentifiable and there had always been a form of ID attached to each suicide note by the body; all a bit too cut and dry for Sherlock’s tastes, it simply screamed serial murder to him. His head almost snapped in the direction of someone calling his name but it was just John and he relaxed a little. John sounded upset, no more angry sounding than usual, but perhaps a little more stern about it. He took a sip of coffee as he heard John take a few heavy steps towards the kitchen, “It is a waste of time. I have better things to do than wash my clothing. Just put them in the wash or else we will both be walking around in sheets by tomorrow.”   
  
Sherlock smiled, still facing away from John. “Why are you so angry about this? Do you have a date tonight? Then consider me to be doing you a favor. Now you are forced to buy a new outfit that won’t-.”  Sherlock’s words were cut short as he turned around to face John and observed him to be wearing his old uniform from the war. John had acquired an uncanny ability to stop his entire thought process, not only once, but twice now. To phrase it simply as John stopping his thoughts would be wholly inadequate a description for to put it specifically, John could make a high-functioning, technologically advanced organic computer freeze without what seemed to be a single effort. Sherlock stared at John like a stupefied deer caught in a lorry’s head lights. That stony exterior was entirely gone and his eyes fell upon John’s chest firmly outlined in his thin undershirt, then up to his tattoo over his right arm which was flexed across more noticeably defined muscles and then finally to John’s army pants. It was as if he was a teenager experiencing a turn on for the first time in his life. His cheeks flushed as the stunned expression on his face slowly relaxed into a wavering form of calm. It was the second time that this thought fully processed in his mind…John was very attractive.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes drew back up to John’s face as he slowly began to regain some of his earlier composure, even though it was harder than it should have been. By the time he did this, he realized that his hand had tilted, causing all of his coffee to spill onto the floor, a few sugary dribbles poised at the lip of the mug ready to escape. As if this moment couldn’t be any more embarrassing, as Sherlock got up from the table, he felt a tell-tale tightness in the crotch of John’s old jeans. The pants were already entirely form-fitting in that area so it was actually hiding the _problem_ rather nicely, but walking wasn’t comfortable in the least, so that just left the dazed and confused Sherlock, standing there with an empty cup in his hand. The brunette looked away from John’s body as quickly as he could. When he was not staring at John’s body, he was able to think semi straight. “…Well! That looks wonderful on you. You should wear some of Mrs. Hudson’s clothing next, perhaps you can pull off her periwinkle dresses.” Sherlock spoke quickly, keeping his eyes off of John as he walked out of the kitchen and passed his friend. He kept his eyes on the floor as he walked, “I am leaving now. Mycroft’s birthday is tomorrow. Got to get that bastard brother mine a birthday gift, if I don’t he will be trying to set bugs back in the flat again. Ties are a common enough present, which should be worthy enough.” His words crowded together out of his mouth as he spoke swiftly as if he was in a hurry, making up some quick excuses to avoid John. He grabbed his phone off the coffee table and headed straight towards the door without looking back. “Get some milk.” He said in parting as he threw his long coat on and strode quickly to the stairs.

 

~ * ~

 

John's boots clumped on the floor as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands moving off his chest to set over his hips over the canvas belt he had on. "Right, because it's not a waste of _my_ time to do _your_ laundry; how old are you again? I'm not your mother either, no matter how much you call me so." John cut a hand through the air in a dismissing gesture, shaking his head firmly.   
  
"No, I don't have a date tonight, I've hardly had time to find one, and you know that. Sherlock-" Frowning, John watched his friend turn around and stall mid-sentence when he saw him. He blinked at his flat mate, narrowing his eyes slightly in confusion and glancing around before he shifted a little uncomfortably under that heavy stare. He was being...ogled, that much he could gather. His cheeks flushed up and he cleared his throat loudly, "Sherlock?" His brows rose, "The laundry?" But Sherlock was long gone, somewhere in that head of his...or out of it so it would seem, because he was spilling coffee onto the floor. "Sherlock, hey! You're-..." John dipped his head down and pinched the bridge of his nose. Wonderful, another thing for him to clean up before work. "Right, note to self..." John muttered, filing this odd and 'probably hilarious later' bit of information about Sherlock in his own little mind...hovel. Sad, it kind of was a hovel...   
  
Sherlock Holmes had a fetish, whether it was simply for uniforms, or just for military ones, John didn't know. Not enough 'data' as the great 'machine' would say. "What?" John blinked his own flush intensifying slightly, looking around as if Sherlock could be talking about someone else. "Uh...thanks, I guess..." He frowned as Sherlock continued to ramble and walked a little uncomfortably. John was still a little floored by the flattery, standing still in the middle of the living area with his hands hanging at his sides. "What?" His confusion only worsened, making him squint. "Right, sure, her clothes would totally fit me." He finally managed to walk to the mouth of the sitting area again as Sherlock bustled out of the kitchen and swiped his phone off the coffee table and burst out into the hallway. John leaned against the doorjamb with another shocked stare, "A gift, for your brother? What a load of crap!" He yelled after his friend, straightening to rub his hands over his face in frustration, irritation, and more bloody confusion. Sherlock was either simply embarrassed from being caught red-handed, so to speak---or he was hiding something. John started and dashed down the hall a ways to yell down the stairwell after Sherlock as he retreated out the downstairs door. "Hey, what about my clothes!?" He slumped against the banister in defeat as Sherlock ran out of the flat in his only outfit left to him. "Bloody hell...buy your own damn milk." He muttered sourly, apologizing to Mrs. Hudson as she came out to see what the fuss was about.   
  
"My, don't you look smart." She grinned up at him from the doorway of her flat.   
  
"Yeah...thanks." John sighed, rubbing his brow angrily. "You're not the only one who thinks so...at least you admit it." He muttered under his breath, too low for her old ears to pick up on.   
  
Trudging back upstairs, John looked through his closet but didn't find a single shred of clothing he could wear to work and the gym. There was his tux from a cousin's wedding, a few suits he had, one of which didn't fit him any longer, and a pair of spandex bicycle pants. Definitely not. He pulled out his phone with a frustrated huff: 

_  
To: Sherlock (Wanker) Holmes  
From: John   
Message: You bloody wanker, I'm going to have to go in this god awful uniform and I'm going to kill you when you get home._ _-JW_   
  


  
Sending it off with a harsh stab of his thumb, John pulled on his leather coat and figured he'd stick to weights today. There was no way he was going to go running on a treadmill with these clunky boots in order to have handfuls of people stare at him awkwardly. He went to the gym, spent about thirty painful minutes there with people either staring, or coming up to talk to him about his service; _that_ he hated the most. 

  
_To: Sherlock (Bloody Wanker) Holmes  
From: Bloody Captain John   
Message: I keep getting asked about my service, thanked for my contribution, and asked for bloody pictures. I swear if your laundry isn't in when I get home tonight, I'm going to make you squeal Sherlock Holmes!_ _-JW_

  
John suffered through an eight hour shift at work, tired from his work out and annoyed with every new person who came up to him with something clever to say about his uniform. _It's like I'm bloody patriotic or something..._ He clocked out around five and hung his doctor's coat up, which had only made his fatigues and heavy boots seem even more awkward. It was like an army doctor was playing dress up in town, how lovely. He scoffed at himself in the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands, picking up his satchel that had his laptop in it, having brought it to work to work on a blog entry he was writing. It was raining outside and John didn't give a single fuck, walking all the way back to the flat in it to cool his head some, drenched like a drowned mouse by the time he reached Baker Street. He hung up his jacket, his white shirt soaked through in front anyway since he hadn't bothered to zip up, the material clinging to his body oddly. Water dripped off the ends of his hair, chin, and nose as he stomped upstairs, glancing over the railing to look at the washer and dryer beneath the first flight. "Sherlock!" He called.

 

~ * ~

 

Sherlock left 221B without looking back. His heart was racing, his eyes were dilated, and his hands were getting sweaty…John could make his body do things that he could never understand. Why could he, of all people, make him stop dead in his tracks? Then again, if it were anyone else this could be worse; at least he knew he could trust John. Sherlock walked down the street, pulling the collar of his coat up, trying to walk off his strange state of body and mind. Fortunately, his _problem_ slowly disappeared as he passed other people. The fresh air snapped him out of it…There was no way in bloody hell he was going back to the flat with John dressed like that…Sherlock’s cheeks still flushed at the mental images building up in his mind.   
  
Pushing all other thoughts from his mind, he decided he had to focus and had to work on the case. By the evidence he had gathered thus far, the only theories he had been able to draw on this case led him to question the presence of a serial killer or a culprit murdering on behalf of a certain kind of local cult; a fraternity. The latter was rather far-fetched but still a minor possibility he had to follow up on. Sherlock was most-likely working with a serial killer at this point and not just any serial killer, a damn smart one. There were no trances of tampering or violence on any of the bodies, nothing at all. Something was off and he already knew what. Riley had to have been killed in the span of forty-eight hours after his disappearance which gave a two day open window of time where no one knew where he was or what he was doing. The young man had disappeared for two days and then his body had surfaced in that alley way in a residential area of Pett’s Wood, freshly burnt and without a single witness from any of the neighbors. Someone had been keeping Riley somewhere; whoever had killed him had taken pleasure from it, death involving fire was often the most gruesome and the victim’s screams were often times the worst of all. The deaths were painful and slow; torturous. To make things worse, it was not a librarian or a cab driver performing the torture. It was someone who knew how to do it. So that ruled out any pyromaniacs in the area or amateur sadists. If there had been any signs of a struggle on the bodies, they had been erased by the horrible burns on the flesh, all clues about the victim or the means by which they met their ends by fire obliterated. This case…was a difficult one.   
  
But Sherlock Holmes had a mental picture of exactly who the killer was. Sherlock hailed a cab and took a ride back down to Pett’s Woods. The detective had to find the place where this murderer was killing their victims or more like targets if he was being honest. It would have to be excluded, abandoned, and somewhere where the victim could scream and never be heard. Pett’s Wood would be the perfect spot if he were a murderer. It was out in the middle of nowhere with very old and widely spaced buildings on the outskirts, an all-around small type of town. Sherlock was walking down to the main road to grab another cab when he saw something odd, something odd within his head. Sherlock had gotten the photos of the other bodies from the computer database in Lestrade’s office and he found that the bodies had one similarity in common. They were all buried. They were all alive when they were burned. The fire was the last torture this bastard gave them. Most likely by this time they were already close to death. The fire was instantaneous. They did not catch on fire; it had to be with gasoline. The bastard covered his victims in gasoline and then lit them up…Though he did not let them burn to ash. He put out the fire halfway…The person still just barely alive, and then he moved them. Riley had only been found because his dumping sight had lacked a dirt ground for digging. He’d been buried in trash bags and found by the local bin collectors.   
  
By the means of these killings, Sherlock formed a theory that this bastard had to be a former soldier who was killing these people for pure pleasure alone. Not just anyone, but people who had _threatened_ him. The drunken Riley had wobbled in the direction of his home that night he had disappeared; as the barkeeper had told him. Riley was known to be a wild drunk, getting into fights and constantly drinking. The boy had to have encountered the killer. Perhaps he’d threatened him, gotten into a fight with the killer. The killer had knocked Riley out and driven him out of the heart of town. No cabbie would take them as they were. The killer then had to have had a car…   
  
  
Sherlock looked around the dirty back streets off of Pine Wood Avenue and Stark where he’d tracked the theorized path from the bar Riley had last been seen at and walked the some half mile towards Riley’s known digs. He turned away from a narrow alleyway and turned the corner, looking for a busier street and pulling over a cab so he could head back off to London. The killer was there, in the heart of England. Sherlock got out his mobile and began dialing garbage companies. Using some strange voices and some common charm, he was able to find out which companies had employed former soldiers in the areas he was looking to scour. There was just one that had been employed as a part timer in London and his name was Devin Jarvis. He was a former solider in the Afghanistan war and when Sherlock did a bit of gossipy talk with the secretary over the phone he discovered that Devin had been discharged for losing his trigger finger. He had been working at the garbage company for a few years by this time and by his physical description, he would fit the bill for the type of individual needed to pull off so many killings. Sherlock leaned back in the seat, letting out a heavy sigh as he rode back towards London. It would be at least another hour before he got back to Baker Street and he could scout out the area around the garbage dump which was located on the edges of London. Sherlock took out his mobile once more and glanced at the time, it was already a quarter past eight in the evening and John would be likely having a fit over where he was by now. He rolled his eyes, thinking of John in that uniform looking for him.   
  
That was going to have to wait; Sherlock had to finish this case. His cab had just gotten into the city when they stopped at a red light. A man in his late thirties came running up to the car, banging on the window. He opened up the door, covered in sweat and gasping, “Please! M-my wife! She’s in labor. I have to get to the hospital to be with her! I need to get there now! Please, let me share this cab with you. I will pay for your ride, anything, _please!_ ” The man was completely out of breath and he happened to be right on a stretch of road not known for easy pickings for a cab. Sherlock let out a sigh and shifted over to make room in the cab. John had always told him to be more human and compassionate. This was what that meant, right?   
  
The man started talking rapid fire as the cabbie started driving again. Sherlock’s eyes fell towards the man’s lap and he observed that…his right finger was cut off right at the second knuckle. The detective stared for only a second before he was looking out the window again, feigning annoyance easily. They were no longer on the main roads as the cabbie drove as per the stranger’s directions and they were going at least twenty miles over the speed limit. Sherlock’s eyes shifted up, looking at the driver in the rear view mirror who was staring straight back at him. The brunette grabbed his mobile causally from his coat pocket as if hadn’t noticed the situation in the slightest and was only checking his texts. “Congratulations on the baby. Hold on one second, I believe I have the number of the hospital on my phone, perhaps they can send an escort.” Sherlock smiled softly, angling his phone so the killer couldn’t see. His fingers moved quickly, tapping at the keys:

  
  
To: John   
From: Sherlock   
Message: I have a case for you.   
Check the recycling bin; you need a cleverer password by the way.   
John, sorry to do this to you again.   
This is going to be the last time, I promise.   
Take the case information to Lestrade, he will find our guy.   
His name is Devin Jarvis.   
Tell Lestrade, he will find my body somewhere along 221B no doubt.   
Goodbye John.   
P.S.- I feel the same way about you.   
Your uniform…it’s very attractive.   
-S 

  
Sherlock’s thumb tapped the send key, quickly deleting all of his text messages once it’d sent. He frowned, glancing up at the former military man in the adjacent passenger seat. “I thought I had it…Sorry about that, Devin, I hope your wife is alright.” The man merely smiled and clapped his heavy, squeezing hand down onto Sherlock’s shoulder. There was a faint prick through the wool of his coat and the cotton of John’s sweater, a slight stabbing pain; Sherlock’s eyes darted to the man’s hand as he drew back a needle.

“We are going to have some fun together, Mr. Holmes.” Devin’s smile was more of a sneer and was the last lilting image Sherlock saw tip before his eyes before everything turned to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I did not intend for this update to be so long coming. Loretta and I both have had the busiest last few weeks ever and are still making the whole transition from summer to class schedules. We're trying guys, thanks so much for hanging in and being so understanding. =] We hope you enjoyed this one. Don't worry, there should be some BAMF!John appearances in the next few chapters. ;]


	12. Blades and Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounds, weapons, and insanity.

Of course, there was no Sherlock in sight when John came up to the flat. He even peeked into Sherlock's bedroom, but the detective was still out and about. Strange, he usually didn't stay out all day unless he was on a case, and that birthday present crap was total shit too. Sighing, John set his bag down on the sofa before he went downstairs to start a load of his own laundry, having seen it in the corner of Sherlock's room like some hoarder hoarding away. He tried texting Sherlock again, but the man hadn't responded all day, so he didn't bother. Instead, he sat down in front of the telly for a while and ate a tiny dinner for one; some frozen freezer special Mrs. Hudson had bought for them for quick lunches.   
  
It was half past seven when John was starting to check the time more often. Sherlock was known to stay out all night when he was working, but according to John, Sherlock didn't have a case. He hadn't seen or heard of a client, and he thought he could trust Sherlock to tell him when he had a case, because more often than not, he would be needed. Even if it was just to be that...'illuminator of genius' as Sherlock put it. But something wasn’t settling right with John and so he tried calling Sherlock. It went straight to voice-mail and John decided not to leave a message. Sighing, he went downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson about any client stopping by earlier, and she mentioned a girl in a frightful state of grief that Sherlock had supposedly turned down because he questioned her mental stability. John pondered that, for he hadn't been around for the interview and hadn't gotten a text about it. Could Sherlock just have not told him because of the row they'd had three, almost four days ago now? John paced his rooms for a little while, trying to convince himself that Sherlock wasn't that stupid, wasn't so vindictive that he would run off, possibly into danger, and leave John behind just to piss him off. John sat down on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair. The bed still smelled of him and Sherlock from when they'd slept in it three days prior, he hadn't gotten a chance to change the main sheet over the mattress yet. There was a point in his contemplations that he figured he was just being paranoid, that Sherlock could just be at St. Bart’s maybe, torturing a corpse for some experiment he'd concocted. He texted Molly, but she told him she hadn't seen him at all past examining the body of one Mr. Ryley Midgley. John frowned. So Sherlock _had_ taken a case without telling him!   
  
By that time, John got a text, nearly dropping his phone as it buzzed in his loose hand. It was from Sherlock... His blood froze cold in his veins when he read what his friend had sent; obviously figuring he wasn't going to be getting out of this one. There were flashbacks in his head of Sherlock up on the roof of St. Bart’s, of his body broken and bleeding on the cement below. John shook himself, standing up and rereading the text. At the moment, he couldn't rejoice in Sherlock's admittance of the truth, he had known it for himself anyway and known it had only been a matter of time before he'd force it out of the stubborn mule, or some mitigating circumstances would. It seemed...the circumstances had beaten him. John swallowed thickly and clicked out of the text, going to his computer and pulling it from his bag, setting it up downstairs with its plug in as he accessed the trash bin on his desktop. It was there, labeled 'Prostitute'...obviously Sherlock had still been mad about that when he'd written this up.   
  
John let his eyes roam the files, and then realized why that name, Devan Jarvis, had been so familiar to him. He was from the war in Afghanistan, discharged some months before John after he'd been treated for a severed trigger finger. Of course...John had been able to tell that it had been a job of self-sabotage. It was a clean cut, not something blown off, and the finger was nowhere to be found. He had also talked to the man...and found he was mentally unstable. John closed his eyes. His past...was affecting his future again. This had to be his fault somehow, if he had written on Devan's records that he required psychiatric evaluation upon his return to England perhaps that would have put him in an institution. But he hadn't...and now he was on the streets, killing many people, and soon...killing Sherlock if the brunette's text was anything to go by. John leaned back from his laptop just as his phone buzzed erratically on the table top. It was a call, not a text. John answered.   
  
"Are you with Sherlock?" Mycroft Holmes' no-nonsense tone filled the receiver and John blinked.   
  
"No...In fact, I just got word from him. He's...shit, Mycroft." John dropped his face into one hand, frustrated and...scared, yes he was scared. But he pushed that away. If he was going to get Sherlock out of this mess, he was going to need to be strong. Like the old days. Put aside his feelings for his flat mate and work logically and tactically. "Have you any knowledge of a man named Devan Jarvis, a Lieutenant in the Afghan war, discharged five years ago."   
  
There was a pause, then some typing, and then, "For a severed trigger finger, yes. I'm to assume there's a case involving his insane killing of individuals?"   
  
John pursed his lips, "Yeah...and soon your little brother will be amongst the death toll unless we get a hold on him."   
  
"We tracked him to a creak in Covet Wood, fished his phone out of the creek." Mycroft huffed, "Should surgically attach it to him some day."   
  
John couldn't find any humor in that comment, standing up and shutting down his laptop, having emailed the lot of it to Lestrade. "Right, but he's not there is he. They’re probably taking him somewhere to waste him." John went downstairs, cradling his phone against his shoulder and stopping his dryer, pulling out some dark pants and a dark sweater. Moving upstairs, he set the phone down and put it on speaker as he started to change out of his old army digs.   
  
"The case Sherlock took was located in Pett’s Wood, a pretty isolated suburban with little traffic aside from families." Mycroft must have been bugging Lestrade's email as well, because he read things word for word from it. Or he'd bugged John's... "The murder and disappearance took place at night, a place like that usually calms down by ten or eleven in the middle of the week. Garbage man..." John frowned.   
  
"How do you get a garbage man out of that?" He pulled his sweater down over his head and went to his dresser to pull out some gloves and a warm cloth beanie.   
  
"Keep up John, the only people out that late with a means of transport are garbage men and the disappearance took place on Pett’s Wood's garbage gathering day." Mycroft typed something else again, and then spoke to someone in the distance.   
  
"Right, well, why don't you just put a homing beacon on Sherlock next time, not his phone?" John found his gun in the place he kept it, downstairs in the desk drawer. He reloaded the magazine and went back upstairs to his closet to get one of his holsters; the over the shoulder one, the gun sitting below his left arm against his ribcage. Pulling on his black leather jacket, John slipped on his shoes with the soft bottoms and grabbed his keys. "Well, I'm going to Covet Wood and starting from there. There's no way I'm going to do nothing and sit around waiting." His voice was gruff.   
  
"Right, I would check empty buildings in the area, unlikely he'd be doing this in his own home." Mycroft ended the call.   
  
"Yeah, no...not a guy like Devan." John hissed as he pocketed his phone and found his old army knife in the box from before, strapping it to his calf above his sock beneath his jeans.   
  
Outside, John was immediately in his own element. He told Mrs. Hudson to find a place out for the night for the flat wasn't safe. He saw her off into a cab before locking up the place, his eyes always roaming, always watching for any threat. He didn't take a cab at first, walking some ways down Baker Street and jumping over to Paddington Street. He caught a cab there some ways down and then switched cabs again over the Waterloo Bridge in Southwark. He wondered if Devan had been watching the flat for some time, or if he had just caught onto the scent of Sherlock trailing him... it wasn't that hard to trail a victim's family after a murder, and knowing if they saw the great London detective or not.   
  
It was a rather long drive into Norwood and on the way, Mycroft informed him through text that they had some CCTV footage of Sherlock getting into a cab off Norwood road. John got sent the clip through a short video over text and he watched it a few times, scrutinizing the faces he could make out. Just Sherlock...and the blurred head of a cabbie. In Covet Wood, there was little to see. There were some of Mycroft's scouts dithering about the soil, looking for footprints, but the phone had been tossed from a window without any sign of a car stopping and the phone had been found in the ditch beside the road, not some creek. John looked both ways down the road, about ready to be at a loss for where to head from there, despair trying to creep into his chest, making it tighten painfully. When he got a phone call...   
  
"John, It's the locked up warehouse off of Heath Road, don't go alone." Mycroft's voice was clipped. "I'm on my way."   
  
John shook his head, looking around for a cab but there weren't any on this stretch of road, especially this late at night. It was some time after ten o'clock. "Right, well, I haven't exactly got anybody with me, now have I." His voice was more acidic then he would have liked. "How do you know it's this warehouse?"   
  
"It used to be the storage facility for the Norwood garbage trucks and repair before they moved, never sold the place so it sits unused." Mycroft said dryly.   
  
"Right, so you pieced that together on assumptions. Great." John hung up and then placed another phone call on a whim. He had a friend in Norwood, a man he'd been abroad with during the war, a trusted colleague he had always promised to visit sometime, but could never be bothered until now. He pushed away the guilt and awkwardness and apologized for the late timing as his old friend picked up.   
  
"Michaels, I have a very huge favor to ask of you..." He bit his lip, "There's a friend of mine, he's gotten himself into some trouble, and I could use someone I could trust to back me up in a heated situation. Can I count on you?"   
  
A sleepy voice was instantly awake, "Sure, but you owe me one, alright? Next time I call in about my dog missing." He chuckled. "Specs?"   
  
"A pistol, maybe anything slightly heavier than that...?" John was walking briskly, trying to find a busier road he could catch a cab on.   
  
"Where at?" Michael's voice was gruff as he obviously rolled out of bed.   
  
"End of Heath Street, quick as you can his life is at stake." John swallowed.   
  
"Jesus, call the police John..."   
  
"I have, but they're not quick enough. I've had to call in the cavalry."   
  
There was a chuckle and the line went dead. John found a cab and took it to Heath street but the cabbie must have gotten lost or something, because he found the cab pulling to a stop in some dead end, wooded area. John hesitated only a moment before he was reaching for his gun. The cabbie turned in his seat and motioned for him to get out of the cab, a revolver of his own trained on John's head. He stopped, his eyes narrowing. Raising his hands, he stepped out of the side door and walked a short distance from the cab, but he knew if he turned his back, he would get shot. "Who're you?" John addressed the balding cabbie with a lodging hat on his head.   
  
"Don't remember me John, bastard..." He spoke with a laid back, tired kind of voice as he shook his head at John.   
  
John peered through the gloom at the man's face. "Cormack, you left the army completely fine, got your discharge after a full tour...what are you doing with a guy like Jarvis?" John's voice turned firm, regaining his footing in his old Captain's shoes.   
  
"Can't pull rank these days John; we're out of that life now...Jarvis offered me a new life that wasn't so boring and monotonous. It's exciting." His lips spread in an eerie grin, showing a few blackened teeth.   
  
John pursed his lips, "Right, a life full of stealing away innocent people and stripping away their humanity, sounds bloody brilliant." He hissed.   
  
Cormack raised his gun higher, just a few feet away from John's chest. "Like you are one to talk, chasin' around after some frilly detective writing bleeding stories about stupid lies. I'd rather do this than be made a fool of."   
  
John's nostrils flared. "He is real, that's a fact now, or do you not read?" That was a turning point for Cormack, a sore nerve because he had never graduated from academy. He'd been a lower infantry man and John had known him for treating him for gunshot wounds when he found the man had trouble reading and nothing to pass the time in his hospital bed with. The ex-army man tensed before he went to shoot and John had that fraction of a second of warning to dodge towards the ground and pull his own pistol. He wasn't as fast as he used to be however and the bullet grazed by his arm, making him hiss in pain even as he fired off a shot at Cormack's side, catching him under the ribs and probably decimating his heart to shreds in his own chest cavity. The cabbie went down, dropping his gun. John picked it up with a sleeve-covered hand and threw it into the seat of the open front cab door, feeling his phone go off in his pocket as he got into the cab car and pulled out onto the bumpy road again. 

  
_From: Lestrade_  
To: John   
Message: Where r u? 

  
  
John typed back quickly, hissing as his arm bled:

  
  
 _From: John_  
 _To: Lestrade_  
 _Message: Cabbie down off Dale Park Rd, he kidnapped me, on my w_ ay.

  
  
Christ, tonight was turning out to be even more like hell. He had lost about forty-five minutes on this detour. Turning back, he followed road signs and found his way back, turning onto Heath as he saw another car pull up alongside the curb down the road from him. It was Michaels...   
  
Breathing a sigh of relief, John glanced around for any officers or if Lestrade had made it here under Mycroft's direction. There were a few black cars parked in metered spots, but they were dark and had tinted windows. He was still suspicious of them. John parked the cab down an alley between two shops, just in front of their bins before he got out and got into Michael's car.   
  
His friend looked a little sleep grizzled, his cheeks covered in a half night's growth of stubble, but his eyes were alert and the energy in him was palpable. "Is that it up there then?" Michaels nodded out the front windscreen.   
  
"Yeah, says my informant." John rolled his eyes, seeing a CCTV camera posted on a building next to a bus stop, but it was facing in the other direction away from the warehouse, which was set back behind some barbed wire fencing. It looked secure enough...but nothing was going to keep John out short of tanks.   
  
"What'd you bring?" John turned in his seat, seeing a green canvas bag lying across the backseat of his friend's car.   
  
"My pistol, my knife...my old M107." Michaels had been a sniper, a true shot... "And some masks and a can of smoggy London bog." He grinned at John when his brows rose.   
  
"Could come in handy..." He grunted.   
  
"And a wailin' jenny." Michaels grin widened.   
  
"Right, because I want to deafen my friend. C'mon, the pistol and the can and masks should be enough. After all, I think it's only one man; I eliminated one of his buddies. He might have a few more."   
  
"Or it's a whole cult." Michaels' eyes lit up.   
  
"Don't jinx it mate." John grunted as he got out of the car.   
  
"You're hurt, you need seein' to?" Michaels motioned to his arm.   
  
John shook his head, "No, later."   
  
They moved around down the road, keeping to the sides of buildings, glancing at the warehouse. It seemed innocent enough, and Michaels produced a pair of gardening little hand shears when they reached the barbed wire fence. He clipped through it quickly as John kept an eye out and they shimmied through on their bellies, keeping low to the ground and in the dark. John drew his pistol, as did Michaels, and the pair split and skirted up along either side of the building. They found an entrance, a window where a piece of wood covering it had been pried free. Michaels boosted John up first, and he helped his friend in afterward. It was dark, and John pulled out a small pen light attached to his keys and shone it about the tiny office they were in. It looked like a place for files and computers but the desk was overturned and there was no doorknob on the door. John crouched and peered through it, seeing a source of light from behind it. There was a short corridor that turned to the right, and a craftsman’s light was up on a stand pointing at a dingy wall to reflect some light. John made a silence motion to Michaels, who covered him as he let the door fall open with a slight touch, swinging heavily on its hinges with a soft squeak. John straightened from his crouch and brought up his pistol as he cleared the other end of the hallway, which had three closed doors at its end, moving down to the corner and pulling out a small side mirror he had stolen off a moped in Afghanistan. It had become useful for looking around corners for the enemy. There was no one, but the door was open to a main area of the warehouse. John nodded to Michaels beside him, who moved around the corner and cleared the space ahead before John moved up to the last door, peeking around it and seeing a lot of scaffolding and hearing a muffled voice speaking, as if giving direction. He couldn't put a face to it quite yet however and he nodded at his friend before he moved out to melt into the shadows cast by the abandoned materials left behind by the previous company owners. He hid behind a stack of threadbare tires to get a closer look, hearing the voice more clearly. It was Devan...or a more manic Devan, it would appear. Michaels joined him and then motioned towards the plastic drop cloth that was hanging over the beams in the ceiling, cutting off the cluttered room from an area lit from within. It was a curtained off space, some moving, roving figures blurred by the plastic sheet draped about in a half curtain. John felt his stomach drop, seeing a figure prostrate on the ground. He swallowed, anger welling up in his chest and threatening to make him lose control. Michaels touched his arm and nodded towards the roundabout way before he started picking his way off in that direction. There was only the prone figure, another figure who he realized was Devan when he spoke, and then a third person, obviously some 'Yes, Master' kind of assistant. The odds were even, but he hoped they would look even better than that if Mycroft's men, or Lestrade and his cops showed up soon...

 

~ * ~

 

The ride became a blur. The drugs that were in the needle were not some ordinary drug. It was taken from a hospital or pharmacy and it was possible that it was velum. It only took a moment, before it started kicking in. His movements slowed down. It became quite obvious when he tried to knock out Devan with a punch to the temple, which was easily caught as if there was no force behind it all. Sherlock stared for a split second before a fist impacted his stomach in retaliation. The air was knocked out of him. Devan was no longer in the army but he clearly was keeping up on his normal training routines. Sherlock let out a sharp breath, clutching at his stomach as he slumped back, reaching out to grab the cab door handle. That was when everything went dark. It wasn’t that he fell asleep, a burlap bag was thrown onto his head and fastened tightly instead. After this, Sherlock was not planning to use drugs ever again; this out of control feeling was horrible. His motor and reaction skills were completely gone and the sounds around him were liquefying and blending together like everyone was talking under water. Sherlock reached up and grabbed at the rope around his neck only to be hit again in the stomach this time and harder. Sherlock’s limp body fell back across the backseat, his head leaning against the window. He couldn’t breathe, his body tensed like a rock out of pain. Though the second punch was soon followed with a third straight to his kidneys and Sherlock dug his teeth into his lower lip, his head banging against the window. He stopped moving entirely, the drugs now taking full effect over him. Something moved around his wrists, tying them together with some kind of rope. The rest of the drive was painfully slow and Sherlock tried to track the cab as they turned. However, the drugs only got stronger as they went along and Jarvis had been smart enough to throw Sherlock’s phone out of the window somewhere down the road.   
  
He could do nothing as his body went completely limp for the rest of the drive and he could hear the sounds of voices in the car laughing about something, though it was hard to make out what they were saying exactly. After what seemed like forever, the car stopped and the driver got out and slammed the door, sending vibrations throughout the metal skeleton. Sherlock’s hazy eyes blinked open, though he still could not see anything past the burlap bag over his head. Jarvis grabbed ahold of his feet, shouting some profanities. “Get out here you fucking prick!! You worthless piece of shit! If I have to drag you out of there, I swear, we will have you screaming in the next twenty minutes!” Jarvis yelled, though Sherlock couldn’t actually move. He dragged the detective’s limp body out of the car, making him land on the cement ground with a loud thud. His head banged against the bottom edge of the car door, this time earning a bit of blood to ooze from the back of his head and stain the burlap bag. The driver was bigger and most likely a lot stronger because he came around and lifted the detective up off the road and chucked him over his shoulder like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes. The man’s shoulder jabbed into Sherlock’s stomach every few steps, gaining a sharp hiss from his limp body every other step. In his drunken daze he tried to listen closely to what was around him. The smell of the place was awful and clearly he was right about their location; an abounded warehouse near the old garbage dumps. He heard a door slide open behind him and the driver carried him inside. “Welcome home. Home sweet, sweet home, I have been _dying_ to rip up another one of these pieces of trash! But tonight, we have a special one! He knows a mate of ours, John Watson. He treated me when I cut off my finger. _Lively_ , chap, wouldn’t you say?” Jarvis was walking up ahead and talking to someone else already inside the warehouse.   
  
Great… there were three of them now. He rolled his eyes to the back of his head and shut them tight as his body ached and throbbed. They were not just going to kill him; no they were going to do this very slowly and torturously. Sherlock could hear someone mumble something up ahead, another former solider no doubt, though this one did not hold as much authority in his voice as Jarvis. The sound of crunching gravel could be heard underneath the heavy steps of the cab driver. They were smarter than they looked…They had sectioned off a part of the building where they could perform the torture and the killings. The plastic tarp of sorts prevented any blood stains, but Sherlock would never see the evidence of their planning, not with the sack over his head still. He hoped to God they would take it off because it was beginning to suffocate.

The driver threw Sherlock onto the hard ground and Sherlock coughed, trying to get up only to have someone kick him in the stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of him again. Sherlock fell back against the cement floor, the blinding light of the warehouse seeping through the bag about his head and he tried to roll into a protective ball. “What a nice coat you have there, Mr. Holmes. Remove it, Rhett! That fuck-face deserves shit!” Jarvis shouted and the other man who Sherlock hadn’t seen yet came over to him, practically running. It was as if Jarvis was the commanding leader around here, still playing army solider. Sherlock muffled a laugh as Rhett ripped open his coat. When he couldn’t get it off his bound arms, he cut the thing to shreds and tore it off instead. “The sweater two.” Jarvis was moving away now. Though Rhett did what he said as if he was some kind of dog. John’s borrowed jumper was cut off his thin torso and a shiver ran up Sherlock’s spine as the chill from the floor leeched his body of warmth. His scarf had also been removed and cut to shreds. This must have been how army torture worked. Step one, dehumanize the target. Strip them, yell at them, and make them feel less than human. Sherlock knew this even in his drugged state and managed to catalogue it for further study later.   
  
“Cormack, go make the rounds. Get his _buddy_ , John. It will be more entertaining to kill both of them. I want to see this shit’s face when he sees John’s head with a bullet through it.” Jarvis laughed and took off his coat. Sherlock hissed, somehow shoving himself off the ground, pushing down with his bound hands as a boost to get him to roll forward. He was struck with a sudden dizzy spell and no doubt the room before him would spin if he could even see it. His movements were slow and groggy but he was still as stubborn as a mule, there was no way in hell he was letting anyone do that to John! Sherlock moved forward, gaining some speed to his movements and raised his bound arms before himself, trashing them down where he heard Jarvis’s voice coming from. Before he could make contact with anything, a metal rod slammed into his chest, driving Sherlock back and knocking him onto the ground again. It had to be a pipe of some sorts, it was long and it could stretch across his whole front and hit hard like metal. Sherlock breathed heavily, pain echoing throughout his entire body. Sherlock started pushing himself off the unforgiving cement floor again when a heavy foot shoved down against his bare chest and forced him back down. The drugs were still in his system and it was a wonder how he could even make himself stand.   
  
“What a determined worthless piece of shit!! Did you really think that _you_ could fucking touch me?! Just for that! Cormack, bring the doctor back alive. I want to see this fucker screaming for us to spare his friend’s life! Rhett, get my knife, _now_! We are going to start playing with this one early.” Jarvis smiled, lifting up his foot and slamming it back down onto Sherlock’s chest repeatedly until he had the detective gasping for air.

Sherlock coughed once he’d stopped and a bit of blood came from his lips. Even with that damn bag over his head he still smiled that smug grin. “You won’t catch him. You are going to be shot down by the police before you even lay a finger on him.” Sherlock laughed but the sound was pained, the other man called Rhett grabbed him by his bound arms and dragged his body backwards across the floor. He lifted up Sherlock by the arms and hooked the rope bound about his wrists onto something hanging from the ceiling. It only took a moment before he was lifted into the air, his toes barely brushing the floor. Without any warning, Jarvis stabbed the knife handle deep into his shoulder and Sherlock screamed, his voice piercing through the burlap bag.   
  
“You really think you’re some funny piece of shit?!” Jarvis screamed back, twisting the knife in Sherlock’s shoulder before ripping it clean out again and stabbing it into his other shoulder just as deep as the first wound. Sherlock bit down on his lip, the pain rendering through his body, a muffled cry straining past his teeth. “What? What else do you have to say?!” The former solider twisted the knife again mercilessly, before once again pulling it out with a sickening crunch and placing the knife on a metal table. Sherlock breathed sharply though the bag, his blood dripping down from his shoulders and onto the floor. A sick laugh echoed though the warehouse as Jarvis became satisfied when Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to answer. The drugs weren’t numbing the pain in the slightest, if anything it actually felt worse. His body shuttered, hanging there limply by the hook hanging from the ceiling.

It took a moment but Sherlock did finally answer in a bone-weary voice, “Touch Watson and I will shove my shoe… _so_ far up your arse… you won’t be able to breathe. I will break every bone… in your body and watch you _die_.” The words hissed out of his lips like venom, fueled by the pain and rage coursing through him. There was silence for a moment before he heard Jarvis moving something on the table to his right, no doubt selecting another torture weapon.   
  
“Are you sure you want to say that? Because guess what pretty boy? Cormack already has your friend. Picked him up a moment ago actually and he is gonna take care of him nice…and slow.” Jarvis laughed and Sherlock flailed in the air, trying to strike out with a foot or knee but Jarvis must have stepped out of range. Anger flared in his drugged body, he was going to kill this bastard no matter what it took. Pain stabbed at his left arm as something sharp was inserted under his skin. It felt like a needle and Sherlock flashed back to the days he spent in a cocaine stupor because of a needle like this one. He hissed as another and another was inserted deep into his flesh. Jarvis’ voice came menacingly, “I am going to _break_ you. By the time we are done, you’re going to be begging me to kill you.”   
Three more sharp pains came as needles were inserted none too gently into his skin. What was he doing? Sherlock jerked back, raising his legs to kick the former solider as best he could, only to miss as his leg fell heavily back to his side. That’s when it happened. Pain shot through his body like a thousand needles. Electric shocks were being sent through his body from those metal needs Jarvis had inserted into his arms. Sherlock gasped sharply, thrashing his body around in hopes to make it stop. The pain was white and hot and it went through his whole body like an earthquake and then it suddenly stopped. He could hear Jarvis sitting down in a chair through the ringing in his ears; he could hear the metal legs grating on the gritty floor under the man’s weight. Then there came the sound of a switch and the pain continued all over again, another scream tearing through Sherlock’s throat.   
  
The sick bastard did this exactly fifteen times and each time lasted a little longer than the last and each seemed stronger too. By the time it ended, there were a total of nine needles in his body and wires were attached to the ends of these needles towards some electro shock device. Sherlock breathed heavily with the burlap bag over his head, his chest rising and falling at a dangerous pace. He was covered in sweat and blood, shaking all over from the aftershocks of the electro-torture. The needles were taken out and Sherlock was dropped onto the floor like a rag doll, the hook clanging on the floor by his head. He didn’t move this time or try to get up, he didn’t even try to open his eyes for how weak he felt. Jarvis got off his chair and circled the limp form of the detective. His heavy boot collided with the puncture wound on Sherlock’s right shoulder, garnering another gasp of pain from the victim. “What’s wrong? Giving up already?! No, no, no, no; don’t pass out yet! We aren’t done with you! Rhett! Quickly, give this fucker something that will keep him awake.” Jarvis kicked at the wounds again, Sherlock remaining unresponsive to the pain this time as he bit into his bottom lip. Rhett knelt over him, injecting some foreign substance into his neck. “Get up! Get up you fucker!” Jarvis shouted louder, kicking Sherlock’s shoulders harder with the toe of his boot. Sherlock’s icy blue eyes opened slowly unto darkness but he didn’t move, his breath becoming shallow and slow.

Rhett stammered at his side, “Sir, I will pick him up for you.” Rhett spoke in a pathetically weak voice, however not feeling any sympathy towards the detective but almost as if he was afraid that Jarvis would snap at him next. But this simpering only angered Jarvis more and the former soldier grabbed his knife again and stabbed it back into the bloody stab wound that he had made before in Sherlock’s right shoulder. A twisted laugh left his lips as he pulled the knife up in the wound, putting enough force and pressure on the action to send Sherlock stumbling back up, moving with the direction of the knife to lessen the pain. The agony had become excruciating by this time and Sherlock found he had to move, for if he did not, the knife would rip right up his shoulder and shred any last remnants of muscle there. Once Jarvis had him standing up, he motioned to Rhett, who scurried over like a rat and untied the rope securing the bag over Sherlock’s head. He ripped it off and Sherlock’s icy eyes didn’t even respond to the large amount of light from the shock and pain wracking his frame. The pain that was seeping through his bones was making it impossible for him to feel anything else aside from agony and tired rage. His face was covered in blood, most of which he had coughed up, and there was a bruise forming on his cheek. The detective stared right through Jarvis with an emotionless stare, his gaze unfocused. This irritated the serial murderer to an extreme for he wanted the attention; he wanted Sherlock to beg for mercy again and again and again.

Yes, Sherlock was scared, for his body was shaking. He was afraid and he was going to die, but there was not a bloody chance in hell he was going to die like a coward by pleading for his life from the likes of this imbecile. Jarvis let out a frustrated sound and when Sherlock simply smiled, the former solider was lost to his rage and Sherlock took that moment to smash his head forward into the killer’s, head-butting the man, “Your breath smells like arse.” He hissed, his lips trembling in his pain but his eyes suddenly hard like Arctic ice, a cut on his forehead now bleeding from his sudden assault on Jarvis’ skull.  
  
Jarvis was forced back, stumbling to stay on his feet and holding his head in his hands. It was a very good thing that Sherlock had tried to get healthier as of late or else he most-likely would have been dead by now. His legs collapsed underneath him and the weight of his pain and exhaustion, the detective falling in a heap back onto the warehouse floor. The constant electric shocks from before were still shaking through his body. The power source of the shocks could not have been that strong but the constant shocks his body had undergone had exhausted it completely. Unfortunately, for Sherlock, Jarvis was back up before he could even manage to sit up and find a weapon of some kind. The former solider stumbled over to him, grabbing Sherlock’s dark curly hair in a rough grip, “Ha! Hahaha! I have had enough of this guy! Get my gun! I will make this one scream.” He growled, his face close to Sherlock’s with eyes wide with madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for being patient with us, there has been a serious of changes in our lives recently and it will be much harder for us to post chapters from now on. However, we are doing our best and I edited this chapter like a fiend today, so hopefully I didn't miss any of our errors.

**Author's Note:**

> We will be posting new chapters as consistently as possible! Reviews and constrictive criticism are encouraged and welcome! We really hope you like our story as much as we do!


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